True Identity
by porcupinetheater
Summary: Tom's life seemed ordinary. But, as he awakes on an exploding ship, with death close behind and his memories evaporating, even as he finds himself in possession of inexplicable biotic powers, all that is changed. A S/I fic, with multiple canon changes.
1. Waking Up

**A/N: Well, it seems it has happened. I have caught the dreaded self-insert fever. Created by Herr Wozzeck, presumably in a creepy underground cavern full of stalactites and the sound of dripping water, it is a cruel virus. Once it takes hold in a victim's central nervous system, is hopeless to resist, because one will eventually submit to its tyranny. **

**But I must confess that I never intended to write this, at least not until I read two stories, the first being Masses to Masses by iNf3ctioNZ, the other the Mass Vexations series by the aforementioned Mr. Wozzeck. Both stories are exemplary works of fiction, and I highly suggest you read them. (Although, admittedly I assume most of you have already read at least one of them.) **

**And finally, I feel compelled to remind everyone to review. I'm not one to say I'll discontinue a story due to a lack of reviews (and that philosophy holds true here as well. I feel writing anything is pointless if you don't see it through to the end.) It is a wonderful feeling, however, to get that alert saying you have received a review. So, readers who have never written a story, you can barely imagine the ecstasy an author receives with such a generous action, and fellow writers, take pity on me! For you know what it's like! And in my continuous position as resident review whore, I feel compelled to tell you that my birthday is in a mere two days, September 30. So, in the likely event that I am unable to publish again before that, does anyone want to give me a birthday present? There shall be cake! (Which may or may not be a lie.)**

**And, as I'm sure you know, I don't own anything. Really. Except my guitar and a few meager possessions. Nothing at all of consequence.**

**And now that that hefty introduction is over, let the real fun begin!**

Chapter 1

Waking up

I always did tend to have lucid dreams. So when I found myself wandering through different areas of the Mass Effect universe every night, I thought nothing of it, save for the fact that I was having a pretty kickass series of them.

Tonight, I sit on my bed, a heavy rain spattering loudly against the outside walls of the small apartment block. A drum roll of distant thunder slowly rolls across the landscape, creating the smallest of vibrations in the floor.

I tune out the incessant pounding of the almost frozen raindrops against the thin windows, tune out the chill in the air that the small heater in the corner of the room can do little to force out. I sit calmly on the edge of my unmade bed, the sheets strewn haphazardly across its surface. My cherry red guitar rests lightly across my lap. My head bobs gently to the heavy bassline thrumming through the headphones, intermingling with the noise from the weather outside. My fingers tense against the familiar tautness of the strings, waiting. I grip the pick tightly, beginning to strum lightly along to the first notes, the strings beginning to hum beneath my fingers with a steady pulse. The amp picks up the sounds, projects them, distorts them. There is something rhythmically hypnotic about the sound, my fingers moving to the practiced pace, almost of their own accord.

For the briefest moment, the world seems to fade away to the backdrop of the pounding guitars and harsh vocals. Then everything once again snaps into sharp, sudden clarity. The music continues relentlessly, but I have stopped, sitting passively against my bed.

I am overcome by an inexplicable exhaustion. As the song reaches its conclusion, my eyes begin to drift shut. Another song enters its first notes, but I pull the headphones from my ears, unable to keep my eyelids open any longer. God, if I didn't know any better, I'd say someone had shoved a chloroform rag onto my face while I was playing. Hell, maybe somebody did. I _was_ out of it for a second there.

I place the dark red instrument onto its stand in the corner of the room, looking distastefully at the chipped paint on the bend in the wall. I weave the pick carefully between the bottom three strings. At least then I'll know where I put the damn thing, not have to waste fifteen minutes searching painstakingly for the small tool. I always could just use a different pick, but months of intensive use have it whittled it down to the perfect shape.

My phone lays against the carpet, its charger already located conveniently in the wall socket, as I half-heartedly curse the its short-lived battery. I'm far too exhausted for the muttered oaths to carry any real weight, the words simply a habitual formality.

Lying down on my bed, I notice, but do not really care, that I still wear my jeans and T-shirt. My pajamas aren't exactly overwhelmingly comfortable anyway.

A sudden thought forces me to pry my eyes apart, if only temporarily, flittering about like a moth within my mind. Why am I so tired? This isn't like me at all. Insomnia can be a real bitch sometimes, but at least when I can't fall asleep, I know everything's normal, the nightly routine.

But my thoughts don't linger, quickly replaced by curiosity of what dreams will appear next. The Mass Effect ones have been coming every night without exception for over a month. I've been through events throughout the games, their chronology scattershot and unpredictable.

My eyes drift shut, and soon I'm taken into another world. But something is wrong.

I sit up, confused. My room is gone, replaced instead by walls of cold steel. A single man runs across my vision, a terrified expression plastered upon his face. A single thought crosses my mind before an explosion sends the objects on the wall shattering to the ground. I remember where I came from. I've been able to recall my dreams upon awakening, but never have I comprehended that I was within a one as it occurred.

Then the floor rumbles violently, much more so than it had in my apartment from the persistent thunder. This new pitching seems more an earthquake. I am shaken roughly from the metal surface on which I had lain, a slight pressure leaving the back of my hand. Before I can see my resting place, however, the man I had seen earlier grabs my arm and pulls me none-too-gently from the room. What the Hell is going on here? This is nothing like what I'd ever imagined before, waking or asleep. I have no idea where I am, in an exploding room God knows where, dragged by a figure I don't recognize.

This can't be good.


	2. Interception

**A/N: I'd like to apologize for the long gap in between updates. It usually doesn't take this long for me to update a story! (Come to think of it, I think this is the longest break I've had.) But forces have conspired to stall me! Weddings, and tech week in theater really killed my productivity. That, and the fact that every time I tried to write this chapter, I would finish, and hate the result. So then I would delete it and start from scratch. So this is, in all honesty, chapter 2, take 5. **

**And as to the whole getting here in lucid dreams deal, I realize it doesn't seem like the strongest premise for a self-insert. But believe me when I say there's more to it than that. It just won't come up for awhile. So, in the meantime, I hope this is satisfactory! Please, let me know in a review!  
**

Chapter 2

Interception

I look around in a panic as I am pulled helplessly along behind the strange man. Jets of fame burst through open doors, the heat pressing relentlessly down from all directions. Sweat begins to pore down my face, stinging as the salty beads drip down. I try to blink away the tears that spring readily to my reddened and itchy eyes, squinting painfully in the multiple explosions of light.

I struggle helplessly against my captor, but I find myself unable to break from his firm, determined grip. I try to take mark of my surroundings, looking for any sign as to where I am. No clues readily present themselves. A dry cough racks my body as I am slowly engulfed in a pale shroud of smoke. Giving up my desperate search, I close my eyes and try to wake up. It's just a dream. Just a crazy, insane dream. So why does it feel so real, so vivid? And why do I know who I am, how do I know I'm dreaming? Eyes still closed, I feel myself being roughly thrown into a seat of some sort, a harness coming down and locking into place. I hear footsteps echoing loudly from my left, the sound of heavy breathing sounding nearby as one of the sets of feet pulls to a stop.

"Go, we have to get the Hell out of here!" a voice shouts desperately.

"Where's Rochocki?"

"He's gone! He was at the heart of the explosion. Poor bastard never had a chance. Probably didn't even know what happened."

I open an eye a crack, praying I'll be looking at the interior of my room, the familiar bookshelf, the chipped paint on the walls that I can't afford to have re-painted. No such luck. Four men stand in a corner of a small room, conversing heatedly, their unheard words supplemented by wild gesticulation. Behind them, the sound of fire roars, drawing ever nearer. The temperature inside is slowly rising. I try to stand up, but the harness across my chest holds firmly in place, imprisoning me. I search frantically for a release mechanism, but I find nothing. I'm completely helpless. Oh shit, this really isn't good. Even though I know I'm still just asleep right now, that is all just the insane creations of a mind sent free by the daily constraints to roam where it may, I can't help but feel a rising sense of panic building in my chest. Dream always feel real, but something about this one seems different. I feel awake, experiencing not the giddy lightness of walking within a dream, but the determined higher thought processes of consciousness. This can't be…no, not a chance in hell. But now that the smallest seed of doubt is sown, I can't help but feel the instincts of self-preservation kick in.

"What the hell is going on here?" I speak the words high-pitched and frantically. Four pairs of eyes turn to me, seeming to register my presence for the first time.

"Who the Hell is he? And why are we bringing him with?" one asks accusingly. "There's barely enough air in here for us if we aren't found immediately!"

"Yes," another answers vehemently. "But we can discuss this later. Right now, I'm more interested in just getting out of here alive!"

The man turns to a panel on the side of the room, slamming a glowing button urgently. Something shifts under my feet, the slightest shaking of the floor. Suddenly, we are propelled forward. Unprepared for the sudden acceleration, my head slams against one of the headrests. My vision blurs for a fraction of a second, but it quickly disappears. I notice a window in the side of the room that I had not noticed before. Behind it, stars glint brightly, points of light in a vast universe. Despite my situation, I can't help but gasp in sheer amazement at the beauty, extending for eternity in all directions, leading out to places never before seen, harboring secrets impossible to comprehend.

I am not given a chance to linger. A sudden jolting rocks the small room I know realize is an escape pod.

"Looks like your fear about not having enough air is groundless, Fajardo. An Alliance ship has us in its tractor beam."

"At least they got the distress signal," comments the third man in the pod, his first spoken words since I first saw him, although, admittedly, there hasn't been much said between anyone.

The pod begins to rotate, and through the window I can now see the smoking remains of a ship. There is a certain grotesque beauty about it as it slowly splits in half down the center, the two pieces separating in jets of flame that are quickly extinguished by the vacuum of space.

The violent shaking has stopped, replaced by a dull, continuous motion as we are slowly pulled into the gaping maw of an Alliance cruiser. A speaker system in the corner of the pod crackled to life.

"This is the SSV Johannesburg; we have intercepted your distress call, but have no records of your ship. Please clarify." The voice sounded cold, uncaring, but that could have been a result of poor sound translation through the system.

"SSV, Johannesburg, this is Brian Gravina, acting Captain of the Private Vessel Ayreon. Our identification equipment was destroyed in the initial blast that destroyed the ship and killed one of the crewmembers. We also have an unknown person aboard, no identification tags of any kind. He may have stowed away on our ship, but we have no way of being sure."

What the Hell is going on? I keep telling myself it's a dream, I'll wake up soon, but I somehow can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. This entire situation seems just slightly too real.

I hear the grinding of metal against metal, and my head snaps quickly back and forth. The other three men stumble slightly, but manage to stay on their feet as they grab hold of small braces attached to the walls and ceiling. A dull clang can be heard through the walls of the pod. We must be inside the ship; we wouldn't have heard the sound floating through the emptiness of space. Screaming isn't the only thing that can't be heard out there.

The seals on the pod's door hiss as it is slowly opened from the outside. A dim, artificial light filters in through the ever widening gap between the metallic seals and the dull, white shimmer of the walls. As the door finally swings inwards, a figure stands silhouetted in the hatchway, face backlit by the luminescence that sent black shadows dancing across his obscured features.

"Corporal Dennis Peraza," he introduces himself. "Systems Alliance."

So, this is still the Mass Effect Universe, then. But that definitely begs the question: Just what in the deepest flaming pit of Hell am I doing here? I've always been with Shepard, somehow involved in the event of the great Mass Effect epic. Yes, some things may have occurred out of order, but I was always somehow directly involved in the handling of events.

Now, I've been taken onto an Alliance ship, by people I have never seen before, real or no, with no clue as to what is going on. My life can be absolutely brilliant sometimes.

The man who dragged me to the escape pod walks to the shuttle's door that doubles as both entrance and exit, shaking hands with the man, still hidden to me by the gently fluctuating shadows. As if feeling my gaze, both turn to look in my direction in unison. The man from the dead ship leans over, whispering something to the stoic Alliance soldier. I cannot hear the words, cannot make out the words their lips form, the dark, shifting veil assuring the latter.

Suddenly, their brief conversations comes to a close, and the man who had dragged me down flame-ravaged passageways and confined me to the seat in which I am still strapped helplessly, releases the restraint's locks. As the heavy bars leave my chest, I inhale deeply, taking in mouthfuls of air, unrestrained by safety bars. I am not allowed to exalt in my newfound freedom, however, as the Alliance man ushers me through the open airlock, indicating for me to follow. No harm in playing along, I guess. With a shrug of my shoulders, I step out into cruiser's docking bay; I pause only a moment, drinking in the technological marvels that surround me. If these designs actually worked, I could make several fortunes off the primitive prototypes, alone. Unfortunately, physics, and essentially anything scientific was never my educational strong suit. Whatever I've cooked up in my subconscious would probably sit worthlessly on a shelf, collecting dust; if the devices were brought back to the real world, the world were the laws of nature actually hold sway over existence.

Looking over my shoulder as I walk down the metal platform, I see docking clamps attached to the ship, securing the free-floating pod to its position, ensuring that even in the exposure of the entire room to space's cold vacuum, the thing will remain firmly anchored in place. Oh God, it would be just my luck if that happened now, when I'm standing here helpless in the airlock.

Looking forward again, I see the man I have been following far ahead, seemingly unaware of my falling behind.

"Damn it," I mutter to myself. These military types are never too happy if you keep them waiting. Not that I really care about making a good first impression, in a matter of hours, these faces will all be a passing memory, but it still isn't fun to be shouted at, even if it all is in my head. I can't help but think of Inception. If all these people are really projections of my own unconscious mind, what does it say if I yell at myself? Is that a self-esteem issue, or does that make me a mild masochist?

I shake my head, clearing it. These thoughts, or, more correctly, speculations, are of no real use to me now. Although I can't help but imagine how cool it would be if I had Leonardo DiCaprio's top right about now. I've always wanted to see one that will never cease its own miniature axial rotations.

My reverie is ended for good as I almost collide with a wall on the way to a narrowing hallway. I peer down the brightly lit corridor, past scores of doors leading into maintenance and engineering rooms. The Alliance Marine is nowhere to be seen.

Why the Hell do I always have to get distracted at the most inopportune times? Not five minutes on the ship, and I'm already alone and lost. That's me. Tom, the eternal screw-up. Good to know I'm the same person in my dreams.


	3. Doubt

**A/N: I'd really like to apologize for my long absence, especially with a still short update. I came down with a horrible case of I-have-absolutely-no-free-time-itis. It's a real condition, consult your local physician, I'm sure they'll tell you about it. Either way, school work has recently killed any semblance of a life I may once have had in a time long ago, long since out of memory. Unfortunately, that time is gone**, **and, as such, has prevented me from updating this until now. That, and I updated my other, much longer running story a couple times recently, considering my absence from that one had been even longer. Again, please excuse the short chapters. As the story continues, and the plot thickens (which it will, make no mistake. There are some major twists in the distant future), the chapters will get proportionaltly more substantial. Until then, I guess you'll just have to content yourself with reading and reviewing! **

Chapter 3

Doubt

The hallways all look exactly the same, one hallway ending abruptly, only to be intersected by one that looked exactly the same as the one before. The ship is a maze, lined with steel corridors, wires running cabled tightly against the ceiling where it isn't hidden from view by multitudes of chromatic metal plates. My footsteps echo down the hall, much louder than I would like, ringing out clearly as clearly as if I treaded on crystal.

Another figure approaches from the opposite end of the most recent hallway into which I've aimlessly wandered, his footsteps slow and assured, perfectly at home in the labyrinthine passageways. His own footsteps begin to mingle with my own, but once again fall out of sync as he notices my confused presence, registers me as not a member of the ship's crew. He picks up his pace, the incessant clacking of his military issue boots clanking heavily against the floor, the sound so heavy I wince, almost expecting the floor to collapse in a shower of glass and metal. After all, anything is possible in this world of fiction. Still, something never ceases to feel remotely disturbing about this particular dream. I can't pinpoint its source, a sound heard only as the softest noise, not quite registered, or understood.

"Who the hell are you?" The words sharp words shatter any remaining semblance of tranquility. I can no longer just continue walking without facing some level of hostility. Just what that level may escalate to remains to be seen, but I can't bring myself to care. Dreams only provide motivations when you don't realize that your body is actually asleep, in a different, saner world.

"I was just looking for someone, I think his name was David Peraza," I say, playing along. None of this may be real, but I'm honestly not in the mood to fight with a figment of my own imagination. The last thing I need is to end up doubting my own sanity. People should never be the ones to check themselves into mental institutions. That's what relatives are for.

"Why?" The words are short, clipped. I can sense his growing impatience with the conversation. What the hell is the guy's problem? I've responded once! And I know he may have places to be, but would it really kill him to make some attempt to be cordial? And what the hell is my problem, looking for character flaw's in someone who doesn't exist? That institution is looming ever nearer on my horizon.

"He wanted me to follow him, but I got distracted and lost. I was from that ship that you guys picked up in the tractor beam. If you can tell me where he is, great. I'm all ears. If not, than can I just please get out of your way? I'm sure you have quite the busy schedule." I can't help the note of irony that sneaks into my voice at the last statement. I've already started to edge my way past him, when he flings out his arm, grabbing me by the shoulders, his grip tightening just enough so as not to cross the pain threshold.

"Look, Sir," he spits out. I can already see a threat forming on his lips, barely restraining his clear contempt. My God, real or not, this guy needs a chill pill, fast. Maybe even a two week subscription. "You're going to have to come with me, so we can have a little investigation about why you're really wondering the ship."

I sigh briefly, resigning myself to follow him. I don't think I'll find my way out of here in anything resembling a timely manner if I go it alone. Might as well see what he has in mind. The more sadistic parts of my mind begin to contemplate the possibility of some form of torture, but I immediately shake the thoughts off. I know things don't always work the same in dreams as in real life, but that seems to be a bit excessive even here. My God, I've been watching a few too many horror movies. Chalk another one up for sadism!

I fall into step behind the man, trying to match the echo of my footsteps to his. There is something hypnotic in the rhythm, as well as the endless passing of the corridors, different, yet all remarkably similar in their composition. I find myself drifting off, not to sleep, but into a world of blending colors and muted sound. Every lift of my foot takes an effort as I tiredly to my best to stumble along behind the man who had found me. He doesn't seem to notice my difficulty, or he doesn't care. Neither one seems a particular long-shot.

I don't know how long we had been walking before we finally came to a stop; it seemed both a minute and a lifetime, and I am unable to discern which. I hear a pneumatic hiss, and I faintly register a brief motion to my right. Through a thick haze, I see a gap formed in the wall, probably where a door had been only a moment before. I'm unable to be certain, however, as the pulse that beats against my brain, the haze that obscures my vision prevents any clear image from forming. None of the passages I'd already walked through had already had these holes in the walls, but it's impossible to tell if I've been retracing my steps, or if this is yet another of the comparable corridors that seem to make up the vast system of passageways spanning the length of the ship.

A rough push at my shoulder blades forces me to drift out of my reverie, back into the world of fog. I try to determine what is wrong with me, but I cannot focus, cannot form a coherent thought. The answer lies somewhere just out of reach, tantalizingly close, and yet I somehow know that I will never reach it, dangling just out of reach of my metaphorically outstretched fingers.

I feel rough hands search thoroughly across my person, but the uncomfortable probing is more a background sensation than a real nuisance, and I can't force the half-hearted protest through my sealed lips. The world is spinning in a beautiful, haunting montage of light, sound, and sensation, the three almost indistinguishable from one another.

The hiss I had heard before makes a second appearance, and I am then able to hear two voices, conversing in hushed whispers. At first I try to separate their words from an incessant buzzing ringing in my ears, but my strained concentration only lets me realize how futile an attempt it is. I notice with a certain unexplained, detached amusement that I can taste blood in my mouth. I run my tongue across my teeth, searching for a concentration of the flavor of bitter iron that could lead me to the source of the bleeding. My new aim proves as fruitless as the less, and I give up, finally content to stand in the blurred, fluctuating world.

"I'm sorry about that, he was just trying to ensure the safety of the ship. I probably would have done the same thing in his position." It takes a moment to register that the words have even been spoken, even longer to recognize they are directed at me, still longer to discern their meaning. The words seem like a puzzle, if I only turn them right they will make sense, form a thought. Then I can respond. My face twists into one of fierce contemplation, unaware of how incredibly idiotic I must appear.

"Sorry about what?" The words sound slurred, and I barely feel them as they pass my lips. How can I feel like this in a dream? Is falling asleep the only way to wake up?

Before I can hear the answer to my question, the ground suddenly shifts beneath my feet, knocking me sideways. I feel my face slam against the cold metal floor. I once again here the sound of angry, frantic whispering miles above my head, growing further and further away. An explosion of pain erupts behind my eyes after a moment, and I hear a whimper escape my lips. A whimper I don't even remember consciously forming, as if someone else is controlling, some puppet master. Than, the world begins to fade out, the pain lessens, until I am finally engulfed in a deep, black ocean.

* * *

Awake. The room is silent, as it should be. A pillow rests under my head, a blanket across my chest. It is slightly more threadbare, irritating, than I remember it being, but I remain immobile, eyes closed, reveling in my consciousness. I blink, and something immediately strikes me as wrong. The lights are too bright, cascading in harsh waves, burning my eyes, and I look away. I rapidly blink, trying to do away with the blurriness that has settled across my eyes in sleep, a sense of anxiety rising furiously in my chest.

The nervousness turns to panic as I feel my arms restrained at my sides, secured by thin, leather straps, tight enough to prevent my escape, but still loose enough so as to not cause undue pain. The stinging ache comes nonetheless as I thrash ineffectually against the bonds. A hand on my forehead pushes my head against the pillow, whispering words that sound soothing, should I take the time to stop and listen. Suddenly, a second voice, louder, commanding stops the babbling of the first, even momentarily ceasing my struggle.

"I don't want to have to drug you. I already had to do that once when you collapsed earlier. Too much of the drug in your system isn't healthy, but nor is this. We couldn't figure out what was wrong with you, but we don't know if your heart was either weakened in your collapse, or even prior to the event. Please try to calm down, Sir."

"Where am I?" Whispers.

"Amnesia?" The word is barely audible, but the word is supplemented by the movement of a man's lips that I can now my make up through my rapidly improving sight.

The other man shakes his head. "I just don't know. We don't even know what was wrong with him."

One man turns to me, allowing a smile to spread on his face, one that doesn't quite extend to his eyes. "You're on the SSV Johannesburg." In the time it takes to process the words, I recognize him as the first to speak, the one whispering unheard reassurances to my groggy, and, apparently, medically screwed up mind. Then the words finally fit into place, and I am flooded by memory. The exploding ship. Dragged along by a man I have not seen since, taken into an escape pod, rescued by a ship called the Johannesburg. Wandering lost in the corridors. Collapsing. I've never left.

"Shit!" I shout. "This isn't right. I'm still dreaming! Wake me up!" I scream frantically at the two men who turn to look worriedly at each other.

"Sir, please try to relax. If you could, please tell us your name, your identification must have been destroyed in your ship's destruction, and we can't find any records of your blood on file."

"Thomas," I begin, hesitating, but deciding to continue. It isn't as if I have any registrations in this world anyway, nothing with which they could somehow use the information against me. "Thomas ********. Call me Tom if you want, it really doesn't matter."

"Well, Tom, if you're feeling up to it, we'd like to ask you a few questions involving your presence here, why you aren't on any Alliance records. Your vitals all seem perfectly stable, and I don't think the little incident back there is going to give you any lasting damage. So, if you want to knock this out of the way now, get it over with, I don't think you'll be met with any objections. Unless, of course, Mikael over here has any problems with it," he adds with a small smile. "He can be an uptight bastard sometimes."

"Ian, why do you always insist on trying to be humorous at the most inopportune times?" the other man asks with a sigh. "No, I won't object, but I'd prefer if the questioning is conducted here. I'd still prefer to keep an eye on your vitals."

"Fine. Let's get this over with now," I say, shaking my head. "Maybe this can at least give me something to do before I wake up," I add to myself, but the first seed of doubt has been sown in my mind, the faintest feeling that something is wrong, very wrong.


	4. Panic

**A/N: I have recently received some great inspiration for this story, so let it come as no surprise to anyone that updates for this will in all likelihood begin to receive much quicker updates, I'm pleased to say. (Not that I'll be abandoning After the Reapers by any means, to those who also read that.) So, without further ado, please read, review, and, most importantly, enjoy!**

Chapter 4

Panic

The room is dark, lit only be several fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling. I sit at a long conference table, in a rigid, straight-backed chair. Sometimes I wonder if companies make these types of chairs specifically to annoy people enough that they pay complete attention for the duration of undoubtedly yet another pointless meeting.

The two men I had seen earlier sat across from me, Ian contemplating something in the far corner of the room, transfixed; Mikael sat stoic, watching my every move silently, his eyebrows furrowed together to form a single, continuous line. For what seems like hours, no one says a word, the brooding stillness almost palpable, the air in the room abnormally hot. A bead of sweat trickles down my face, dripping into my eye. I blink it away, the salt stinging painfully.

Suddenly, the door opens, and we are joined by a third man, a silhouette backlit by the dim that filters in behind him through the open door, his face obscured by a thick mask of shadows. As he proceeds to enter the door, he walks to the opposite end of the metal table, pulling out another of the chairs and sitting to face me. His cheekbones protrude far out to the side, his eyes deep-set in his thick face. Thick eyebrows allow his eyes to remain in their black veil. The effect is disconcerting, and he seems to notice my unease. He consults a file somewhere, the black pools that hide his eyes narrowing to read the script in the dim light. "Thomas ********?" he asks, his voice deep, the words rolling out in a thick European accent. I frown, trying to place it, but am unable. My mind is still reeling from my previous ordeal, thoughts still turning back to the exploding ship, frantically searching for answers that I know I will not find.

"That's my name," I reply shakily, nodding my head. Suddenly I am glad for the chairs, the table hiding my shaking legs. What could they possibly want with me? These people are Alliance, that's what they've said, at least. They're just here to question me. It can't come as too great a surprise, not listed on the records as I am.

"Well, Thomas, I'm a very straight forward man, and I'm not going to beat around the bush here with pointless pleasantries. If you have any idea as to why you are currently non-existent in galactic society, now would be the perfect opportunity to divulge the information."

I can't tell him I'm dreaming, such a reply would hardly allow me to escape the situation. Not to mention the fact that, to my ever increasing horror, I'm no longer even sure if I am dreaming. What if this is all real? What can I tell him?

My mind reels, feverishly searching for a way out, the turn of phrase that can prove my innocence of whatever crime I have been implicitly told I've committed. "I…I…." Suddenly a crash interrupts my bemused sputtering, followed by another, harder than the first. I am thrown violently from the chair, cringing in pain as my elbow smashed against the unyielding metal table. A wave of pain shoots up my arm, and for a moment my breath is taken away.

The sound of a siren begins to shriek through the air, shattering the tension. A knot forms in my stomach, and for a second I don't move, dreading to look up, for doing so would mean admitting something is wrong, very wrong. And if this was a dream, pain always wakes me up. The jolt against the table would have sent me sitting bolt upright at home, but I still lie on the cold fear trying to repress my fear.

"We're under attack by an unidentified vessel!" a voice shouts over an intraship comm system. "We've been hit, some sections of the ship have caught fire from inner explosions, but we're still just holding together. Get to the shuttles in the hangar bay!"

I lift my head up, in time to see Mikael stand up and begin to walk towards the door, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. I feel the floor shudder slightly underneath my body, and I hear someone give a small shout of encouragement.

"We've got the main guns up!" I recognize the voice as Ian's. "Let's knock those ambushing sons of bitches into the nearest planet's atmosphere!" His laughter is interrupted by another small shudder from the ship's main gun as it launched another projectile towards out attackers, followed by a much larger one as we are hit with yet another impact. One of the chairs topples across my back, and I wince again. I hear a small thud as Mikael stumbles in the doorframe, his shoulder slamming against the sharp edge of the door. I hear a pop as his shoulder is suddenly jolted from its socket, and he collapses to his knees in agony, holding the limp joint as it hangs uselessly at his side.

Ian walks up behind the Mikael, too distracted to notice the figure approaching. Ian's hands quickly shoot out, grabbing the injured man's arm and quickly forcing it back into place. A yelp of surprise coupled with pain escapes his mouth, but he then stands up, rolling his shoulders in a circle, and giving a curt nod of thanks to the larger man.

"They've breached the hull! We have intruders on board!" The pilot's frantic shouts jerk all our eyes to the speaker, as if it will save the ship.

"Well, I guess that shoots the emergency shuttle plan to Hell," Ian says with a small, dark chuckle. "Come on," he adds, addressing the other two men, Mikael still trying to loosen his shoulder, the one I don't know still looking on, his face pale. My eyes travel down his body, and I see a dark stain widening along his pant leg, the fabric tattered, his injury out of view of the others. He doesn't even seem aware of the trauma himself. The fabric is shredded, and I see small beads glistening against the jagged, frayed edges.

Then, I finally see the source of the wound. A picture frame that had previously hung on the wall now lays shattered on the floor, splintered to pieces. Several of the fragments became projectiles in its violent collapse, penetrating his skin. An especially large one has gone deep, and the blood that does escape past the torn skin rolls lazily down the jutting piece of wood.

Suddenly, realization strikes me. He's in shock. I don't know how far the shards managed to penetrate, but if it somehow managed to cut deep enough to sever a major vein or artery…I don't want to think about the results.

I pull myself shakily to my feet, and call after Ian, who is already turning to leave the door. I see a questioning look pass across his face as he tries to recognize my face, the sudden attack driving all thought of my existence to the back of his mind. Suddenly I see understanding his eyes, quickly replaced by impatience as he wonders at my possibly reason for the careless interruption. I gesture to the man standing next to me, answering his unasked question. "He's injured. I don't know how badly, but I think if something isn't done, he could be in trouble."

"Damn it," Ian mutters under his breath, quickly walking over to the man who had come to question me, glancing over him, searching quickly for the injury as the man shakily gestures him to move on.

"I'm fine," he manages to spurt out quietly, the weak voice so different the powerful, commanding tone he had been speaking in barely a moment before that his words only manage to negate their own meaning. Ian's eyes finally light on the bloody wound in his ankle.

"Shit," he mutters, dropping down to inspect the wound. "I'm no doctor, but that doesn't look good at all. Straight through the center, might have even cut through one of the central arteries. It doesn't look like it clipped the femoral, though, Thank God," he says, standing up once again, shaking his head in anger. "Stay here, you're in absolutely no condition to fight," Ian orders, turning to the man.

"You can't order me to do anything," the other man protests. "I'm your superior officer."

"The superior officer's post can be temporarily filled by a lesser's if the officer is rendered temporarily unable to fulfill his duty," Ian responds impatiently, gesturing to the man's leg. "This qualifies!"

After a short pause, he turns to look at me. "Come with us, I don't know if I can trust you, and I'd rather be able to keep an eye on you, rather than have you stab him in the back. I think it's quite the coincidence in and of itself that we're attacked not two hours after you come in on that ship."

As we approach the door, I glance around the corner tentatively, fearing what might me be waiting, but it remains empty, bathed in a red glow from the emergency lights, the piercing shriek of the siren still echoing loudly through the halls. My God, it's like the fire alarm systems at my different schools, the incessant sound screeching in my ears, and I hold a hand up to my head, the noise bringing my headache back.

Ian slides past me into the empty passage, pulling a small pistol from his belt. "I don't think we have time to make it to the armory," he says to Mikael over his shoulder, his tone indicating the words are more question than statement. The other man nods his agreement, his injury already seemingly almost forgotten.

We walk down hallway after hallway, occasionally passing panicked crew members who run frantically along different corridors in small packs, ready to defend their homestead. Gunshots echo down the corridors, reverberating so frequently it is impossible to discern their direction.

I slam into a wall as the ship barrel rolls, likely avoiding another hit from the enemy ship, one more of which will likely tear the cruiser apart, sending me to a premature death in the Universe I have just understood is more real than I at first imagined. The realization stops me dead in my tracks, and I almost sit down, to scared to wander any further steps into the unknown.

I feel a hand grab my shoulder, bringing me out of my temporary paralization. "This isn't the time to stop, get going," I hear Ian's voice call out desperately, rushing forward, whipping around a corner of the passage.

I hear another gun shot ring out, and, as if in slow motion, he collapses to the floor, face torn apart by a lone bullet. For a moment I stand rooted to the spot, but then wild, primal instinct kicks in, and I spin, sprinting in the opposite direction. Another gunshot, another thud close behind me. I don't have to look to know that Mikael has joined his companion in the final repose. Oh my God, somebody help! Suddenly, the ship turns, and I stumble to the ground, losing my balance and tumbling forward. Instinctively, I roll to my said, narrowly avoiding a bullet as it glances off the metal beside where my head at just been. I spring to my feet, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I feel a strange tingling in my fingers, a strange twinging, as if they had fallen asleep. The feeling travels up my arm, growing numb as the wave spreads. Suddenly a wave of heat rushes down, past my fingertips. I don't have time to contemplate the strange sensation, charging at the man with the gun, his hand already raised to fire a final shot, the target aimed at my head. I drop suddenly, continuing to run even as I am crouched down. The shout rings out as it ricochets harmlessly off the wall behind me. I suddenly collide with the man, knocking him to his back, but he kicks out furiously with his feet, sending me vaulting wildly over his head, my momentum carrying me painfully into the wall.

We both return to our feet at the same time, but the man now has his gun pointed squarely at my chest, and I know there is no time to escape the coming shot. I close my eyes, waiting for the inevitable end, clinging to the final, desperate hope that this is still just an insane dream, not for a moment believing it, not anymore. I feel the tingling sensation in my arm again, traveling much quicker than it had before. The fire once again comes shooting down, feeling at once incredibly hot, and like ice in my veins. I look down, and as I stare in awe, I see a blue wave of energy shooting down my outstretched arm. The man also seems to be temporarily frozen in disbelief, and before he can recover, a crippling blue pulse jumps from my fingertips, shooting across the distance between us as if it is nothing, lifting the man up like a rag doll as he crashes into the wall behind him. The air escapes from his lungs at the sudden impact, and he begins to drop. His fall is interrupted by a beam of metal that had been torn from the wall in one of the explosions. His head collides sharply with the outstretched bar, and hear a sickening crack as his neck bends upwards, far more than is natural. His eyes glaze over, frozen in the final widening of fear they had locked into before his demise.

As his body slides to the floor, I only have time to notice the Cerberus logo imprinted on his arm before a second pair of arms grabs me.

* * *

**A/N: So, let the cliffhangers begin! Anyone who is familiar with my writing knows that this will be far from the last. Please get accustomed to the suspense, because I whole-heartedly intend to make it a constant companion!**

**And in other news, I've decided to adopt the credits song thing I started in ATR, as well. Basically, after every chapter, I'll post a link to a song that you can feel free to follow to listen to the song I have chosen to close the chapter on. You have to remove the spaces, though, and copy and paste the URL, because the site doesn't allow direct link posting, and I'd rather not have my account suspended, thank you very much!**

**So, the credit song:**

**In My Time of Need - Opeth**

http :/www .youtube .com /watch?v= 9x6YclsLHN0


	5. Navigating the Maze

**A/N: I would like to apologize for yet another extended absence. I seem to be plagued by a chronic lack of free time, recently. Schoolwork has kept me obscenely busy, and has left me no time to publish anything. So for the few of you reading this whose stories I also review, or plan on reviewing, I'm sorry, but I haven't had time to accomplish that, either. But fortunately, I find myself in the position of having a long weekend, so I sincerely hope I shall be able to rectify that! And I'd like to extend that reminder to review yet again. To those awesome few who have already done so, you guys are awesome, and I hope you keep it up! For those others, I'm glad you're reading it, but wouldn't it be even better if you let me know you were reading it? That way, you get your due gratification, and I get giddy with excitement! And I hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 5

Navigating the Maze

Instinctively, I lash backwards, and I feel my elbow collide solidly with someone's face. There is a sickening crack, and I feel something shift, the unnatural movement accompanied by a surprised yelp of pain. I spring around, arms thrown over my head to ward off any incoming blows, knowing full well that they will do little to stop a bullet should the man fire.

Through the gap in my arms, I can see blood streaming down his face, flowing freely from his broken nose. The bone is pushed awkwardly to the side, and a grimace is frozen on his face. My eyes glance downward, and instead of the twisting horns of Cerberus, I see the image of an Earth sheltered underneath a large arch, split down the middle into two symmetrical beams. The Systems Alliance. Suddenly, I recognize the man's face, shrouded in blood as it is. My mind struggles to recall the name, hidden at the very edge of my memory. I reach out, trying desperately to recall, needing to regain my power of higher thought which seems to have fled ever since my awakening on the exploding ship. The pointed chin, thick, but cropped, black eyebrows, gaunt face, pale complexion, all look vaguely familiar, but remains as illusive as a ghost. In spite of the situation, I smile ironically at the statement; the man looks a bit like a ghost himself. The already insipid skin growing whiter and whiter as the blood still rushes unrestrained from his injury. Then, out of the blue, it strikes me, and for a moment I stop, surprised not so much at his identity, but at the sudden return of the memory. Dennis Peraza, the corporal who had first met us on the shuttle immediately after our landing on the station. The one I was supposed to follow.

He seems to recognize me as well, and his eyes widen for a moment, but the moment passes, and with the hand not already clamped over his face, he gestures at me to approach. I hesitate a moment, wanting to help the man whose injury I myself caused, but I can't suppress the paranoia that rises in my chest. Scenarios run through my head in a blur. I observe, a spectator in my own mind, watching myself approach the man, calling out unheard as I see myself look away just as the corporal pulls a knife, stares down at my vacated body cruelly, and begins to drive the weapon downwards. Before I see the penetration, the scene evaporates, and I am once again in control of my own mind. The man stands just were he was before, his motions growing more and more urgent.

"Please, hurry! We don't know when others are going to show up!" he pleads. "I don't need to stop the bleeding completely, just enough that'll be able to congeal by itself pretty quickly." I nod slowly, steeling myself.

I step towards him, my steps still slow and cautious, wary of putting myself closer to this unknown man, lest I find myself at his mercy. "Here," he says, handing me a small medigel applicator. "I don't have my military issue suit on, and even if I did, it wouldn't be able to fix a facial injury. You'll have to put this in, because I can't see what I'm doing, either."

"Will this heal it?" I ask, my mind flashing back to the time I had spent in this Universe when it was a mere game on a TV screen, remembering how an application of the substance would effectively heal every wound picked up.

"No, it'll stop the bleeding for the most part, not completely, because this is going to be a very small application. And it'll do absolutely nothing as far as broken bones are concerned. So unless you're some doctor who can field set a broken bone, please, just give me the injection so we can get the Hell away from here, find some of the others that haven't been killed yet, and make a stand!"

"I slip the small syringe's needle to his crooked noise, and push, the point slowly sliding underneath the skin, emptying its contents. After a few seconds, the blood that had been flowing freely from the man's nose has slowed to a trickle. I extend a hand, which he grabs, pulling himself to his feet, tenderly wiping away at the drying blood crusted onto his face so as not to disturb the still snapped bone. I can see him wince slightly at the contact, nevertheless, his movement then giving way to a surprised yelp of pain as he jumps at the sound of more gunshots, nearby, his hand smashing roughly against his face.

Peraza quickly recovers from his pain, pulling a pistol from his side. I regard the weapon for a moment before speaking up. "I'm grabbing his weapon," I say, gesturing towards Mikael's discarded and forgotten firearm.

"No!" The vehemence behind the statement surprises me, and I pause for a moment, looking warily over my shoulder at the man, not knowing if I should expect a sudden attack.

"Leave him be," he says, and I am thankful to hear his voice calmer, the anger gone, replaced now with what I think is sadness. "Take his, if you need one," Peraza says, gesturing further down the empty passage where Ian lays sprawled on the ground, face an unrecognizable mask of gore. I walk over, stepping gingerly across the metal surface in an attempting to remain as quiet as possible, loathe to alert anyone to our presence who is not already privy.

I reach the fallen body. The sight is gruesome, and I swallow deeply, trying to force down the bile I can taste in my mouth. His face has been torn apart by the bullet, now just a crumpled piece of metal almost indistinguishable from the once gleaming floor around it, now dull and blackened by scorch marks, visible only due to the slight orange that fringes the casing, still hot from its rapid acceleration.

A pool of blood has gathered on the floor beneath Ian's still head, still flowing freely from his obliterated countenance. I look away, closing my eyes and breathing in sharply, then turn back, leaving only a tiny slit between my eyelids, trying to blur out the image, my efforts met with only a modicum of success. Quickly scanning the slick, blood-drenched floor, I search frantically for the small weapon that I know is hidden somewhere in the midst of the carnage. Finally, after my agonizing search, my eyes alight on the discarded firearm, and I quickly reach down, pulling it from underneath Ian's back, the body shifting disturbingly as I do. The handle is wet, and looking down, I see, to my horror, a red stain reaching across the palm of my hand. The thick liquid runs down the crevices in my hand as if they are rivers, herded by systems of canals to flow in carefully executed patterns.

Frantically, I wipe the ever-widening rivulets against my shirt, not caring about the stain that forms against the futuristic apparel. The handle of the weapon quickly follows my hand, drying off the lifeblood that had drained from a dead man. Shuddering a final time, I turn away from the mutilated form, hoping to never see it again in my life, wherever that might be.

Dennis is standing above Mikael's body, looking down sadly at his lifeless face, a crater formed in his chest from the buckshot sprayed by the shotgun that now lies broken several feet away from the body of its wielder, his neck bent sideways at an awkward angle, legs splayed apart, chest down, on a pile of metallic rubble.

Peraza seems to notice my return, and he turns to face me. For the first time, I notice the dark circles under his eyes, the shadows lengthened by the look of hopelessness plastered across his visage. He nods once towards me. "Let's go." His words contain no force behind them, more of an unfortunate recognition of what we should do, have to do, spoken without any conviction.

Without any further words, he turns away from the corpse, and begins a slow, steady progress down the hall, not stopping even once to look back. The gunshots that until recently had been so unnervingly close are now much fewer and further between, but I'm not convinced this is a good thing. In either respect, the ship's frantic, violent course changes, avoidance maneuvers have ceased, but the pilot of the ship, whoever it is, has not called in any new reports since my departure from the interrogation room.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost walk head-on into Peraza's crouching form. I shake my head, trying to focus once more on the Hell in which I've been trapped. The man's form is huddled over a prone one, and for a moment I fear we have merely stumbled upon yet another obliterated carcass, but then I see the figure's feet move, and one of its legs shifts into view. Through the left ankle, a thick shard of wood protrudes, a trail of blood running across its rough edges, dropping to the floor in small beads of sickeningly beautiful color. Glancing beyond Peraza, I can see the trail formed by the small droplets laid across the smooth floor until the tracks are hidden behind a curve in the passageway.

"Please, take it out," I hear a voice beg, softly, weakly. "I can't walk with this stabbed through my leg, and we have to get out of here," the voice continues in a familiar European accent.

"I can't, Sir. I'm sorry," Peraza replies apologetically. "If I remove that now, it'll tear straight through at least one, and likely several more major arteries. As it is, it's already gone through several central vessels, and if I remove it here, without a proper surgeon, you'll bleed to death before the medigel can seal up the wounds."

"Please," says the other man, his voice beginning to crack. "I don't want to die, not here." I can hear the terror in his words, the hopeless panic, as he begins to resign himself to death.

"Look you aren't going to die; we'll take back the ship. The other one's already stopped firing on us, so we aren't going to go dead in space, and we'll find out what it is they wanted with us in the first place."

"No…" begins the officer, but Peraza holds up a hand to stop him. The man looks up in surprise, his face pallid from the rapid blood loss, unused to being contradicted, the shock evident even on his pale features. Suddenly, the bleeding man's eyes dart over to my face, scanning up and down, a look of comprehension passing across his features, followed by fear and anger in quick succession. "It's him!" He raised a shaking finger, the digit wavering unsteadily, but pointing unmistakingly at me, nonetheless. "He infiltrated this ship!"

"No, I took him off that shuttle that came in. He even killed one of them," Dennis replies calmly.

"Them? Who's on our ship?"

"I," Peraza pauses, contemplating. "I'm not sure. They have a logo that looks like some sort of fanged creature. I've never seen it before."

"Pirates?"

"I don't know. It could be anything."

"Well, go then," the man said, finally regaining an iota of confidence. "But help me into a side room here. I'd prefer to not be left in the open where I'm all the more vulnerable."

"Good to see you still have enough presence of mind to be giving the orders," Peraza remarked quickly. "Come on." He quickly bends down, draping the injured man's arm across his shoulder, buckling slightly under the added weight. With a grunt, he begins forcing his way forward, down the hallway towards a room whose door hasn't been decimated by flying shards of metal or ravaged by the cruel fire.

Stopping at the door, I watch as Dennis waits impatiently for the sensor to register their presence, but the door remains sealed tightly. Cursing, he apologetically helps the other man lean tenderly against the wall before turning back to the unmoving seal. He places his hands against the door's seals, fruitlessly attempting to pry open a gap large enough to slip the larger, wounded man through. Glancing around anxiously, I watch as his eyes light upon a fragment of metal jutting precariously from the wall behind his back. Spinning quickly, he grasps the sliver, and with a piercing screech that sends my hands shooting to my ears reflexively, too late to protect them from the sound, rips it from its perch. Once again facing the door, he furiously jabs at the seal with the thin end of the shard. After several more failed ventures, I finally see the makeshift crowbar take hold. Peraza pauses for only a moment to readjust his grip, before suddenly lunging backwards, the sudden jerking wrenching the door from its seal. With another screech, the rebar shaft snaps in half as if it is a toothpick and clatters to the ground.

Without stopping to look around, Peraza once again slides himself under the other man's shoulders, heaving upward and dragging him quickly along the floor, his ankle with the frame fragment still embedded within pressed sharply against the floor, only serving to drag the stake deeper into his leg. Fresh blood pours from the wound, coating the ground with a slick, crimson trail. As the two turn to enter the door, I can see the heavyset European's face twisted in a mask of pain, eyes closed tightly, trying not to cry out as the chunk of wood slides deeper within his leg, shredding apart the nerve ending and blood vessels, the pool around his dragging leg growing larger with each passing step.

Suddenly, I rush forward, following them into the room, not wanting to be left alone outside, not knowing what could be approaching from the many passageways that line the hall, branching off into multitudes of maze-like corridors. The room is relatively small, harboring several small tables, surrounded by monitors which flash frequently, displaying their many esoteric readings on screens placed at intervals about the room. Many more monitors are black, their screens smashed, small veins of glass stretching in beautiful, elegant patterns across the surface, others merely producing static. Dennis Peraza crouched down beside the other man, whispering something to him, the other nodding weakly in response. Pulling a small knife from its clasp on his belt, he brings it up to his arm, sliding the blade along the fabric of his shirt, the sharp edge easily ripping the fabric's seams apart, the frayed edges resting against his olive skin. After mere seconds, he rips the strip of fabric, ripping it along the last few seams where it still was desperately clinging. Crouching down, he deftly ties the material around the man's leg in a makeshift tourniquet, the blood flow slowing visibly as he does, until it remains only a constant dripping, like the rain dripping off gutters after a rainstorm.

Standing up, Peraza glances in my direction, a frown plastered across his face as he gestures at me to hurry over to where he stands at the door. Once I come within arm's reach, he deftly reaches out and grabs me around the collar, nearly dragging me from the room in his rush, forcing me into a constant stumble as I try to regain my footing while continuing to be pulled along at his frantic pace.

Finally, I feel my feet find purchase against the formerly polished surface of the floor, still having to sprint desperately to keep up with the man who continues ahead determinedly at his breakneck pace. The sounds return, shouting, gunshots, more frequently than before as we make our way from the ships inner belly to the outer extremities.

In front of me, Peraza finally begins to slow, once again pulling the pistol from where it is positioned on his hip. Crouching low, he looks back over to me. "Look, I'm not sure if I can even trust you, much less rely on you in a firefight, so if you're going to insist on carrying that gun, you're going to walk in front of me. And if you try any shit, I swear to God, I will shoot a hole through your head. Don't test that, because I'm a man of my word."

My throat tightens at his words, even more so as, with a hand between shoulder blades, he pushes me forward. I pause a moment, standing absolutely still, like a deer trapped in the headlights of a rapidly approaching car. Shaking my head, trying to clear it of the fear that plagues my shaking limbs, I slowly begin to walk forward, the pistol trembling in my hands. I know that in a fight, even in the most ideal situation, my chances of shooting anything in a reasonable amount of time would be incredibly unlikely, and these are far from ideal conditions. Still, there's some amount of comfort to be had just in my fingers, tightened against the handle, tensing on the trigger, as irrational as such feeling might be.

Suddenly, I remember the biotic attack, which had been momentarily driven to the back of my mind due to the sudden panic. I lift me free arm, trying to replicate the coursing ripples, the almost static charge of the energy jumping across the synapses of my neurons with their regular electrical impulses, but to no avail.

Proceeding cautiously, we finally arrive where a second hallway intersects the one down which we are walking. I flatten my back against the wall, chest heaving as I begin to hyperventilate. "I don't want to die. I don't want to die." The mantra is repeated over and over again, and it takes me a moment to realize the words are my own terrified pleading. Peraza looks up at me angrily, silencing my mutterings with his mere look, threatening. He himself leans against the wall opposite me. With a last, quick glance in my direction, he leans out into the open passage. I cringe, waiting for a hail of gunfire to rip through the relative calm, but buzzings of various electrical monitors and the crackling of fire remain undisturbed.

I edge out into the open space, scanning around the corner with one eye so as to assure its vacancy, then lean fully out. One end of the hall continues in a long corridor, extending out of sight. The other is a temporary dead end, tall flames ravaging the multiple control interfaces that adorn the surface of the walls, sparks of electricity flying from the circuits, serving only to feed the blaze.

"Keep going." Peraza nods ahead, waiting expectantly for me to once again take the point. Grudgingly, I oblige, only after he allows me a planned, "accidental" glimpse of the pistol still cradled in his hand, barrel facing in my general direction.

We pass intersection after intersection, at each one expecting to encounter some form of resistance, but they remain empty. The lack of any human presence is at once comforting and disturbing, and I find myself unable to decide which is the prevalent emotion.

Finally, the corridor comes to an abrupt end, our course blocked by a sealed doorway. Peraza steps up to the panel, running a hand curiously across its surface. "These are only supposed to seal in the event of a hull breach," he mutters, almost to himself. Speaking louder, he turns to face me. "This room is open to space. Something tells me that we can find some clue as to what's going on here if we break through that door. Hope you like zero gravity," he adds, ironically cheerful.

"No!" I shout angrily, no longer able to hold my tongue, the outrage and confusion of the last several hours finally reaching the breaking point. "I know you don't have any proof of my innocence, as you all seem so fond of telling me, but I don't even know what it is you all seem to think I'm doing! I don't what's going on hear anymore than you do, and I'm not going to put my life on the line because you assholes all seem to have come by the notion that I'm a prisoner here. And if that is the case, prisoners are generally not used as fucking bullet fodder!"

My outburst is greeted by a momentary silence as the Corporal contemplates my words, seeming to search for a response.

"I never forced you to come with me," he counters. "I made you bandage my face after you broke my nose. You came along with me because you didn't want to be left alone with whomever it is that's attacking us."

"Doesn't that prove I'm not one of them? Why would you put me at the front, where I'd get ripped apart in any fight before they even touch you, when I'm clearly not even competent with a simple firearm?"

"That could all have been faked so you could catch me by surprise and shoot me in the back."

"Well, wouldn't I have done that when you were talking with that one injured officer? I could've taken you both out fairly easily if that was the case."

"Not at all. If you are working for them, and are much better trained in gunplay than you're giving yourself credit for, you would've noticed I kept an eye on you the entire time. I have surgically enhanced peripheral vision," he adds, tapping a finger against the side of his eye.

"If you think I'm about to stab you in the back, why are you telling me your special abilities?"

"Not all, just the one. And I've watched you with that gun long enough to accept your claims of incompetence. Some of the habits of a first time gun user are almost impossible to realistically replicate, but you have them all down. I'd say you've never touched a real weapon before in your life."

"Than you'd be correct," I say, affirming his guess. "And now that we have the fact that I am an unfortunate bystander in this whole incident, I think I can safely say that I refuse to go in there!"

As my voice rises to a shout, I feel pressure against my shoulder, followed by a wave of blinding pain. I collapse to my knees, instinctually grabbing my shoulder at the source of the pain. My hand comes away soaked with blood. My own. Looking down, I see the bloody hole torn through my shirt, the impact of a bullet.

* * *

**A/N: Chapter 5 Credit song:**

**Ghost of the Sun - Katatonia**

http :/ www. youtube. com /watch?v= 1Y6MTcUNYrs


	6. Beneath Flickering Lights

**A/N: I'm so ashamed at how long it's taken me to publish this chapter. All my time has been consumed by either: a). studying for finals (which I have just finished taking.), b). first auditions, then actual rehearsals for the greatest American play of all time, Arthur Miller's The Crucible, or c). Fighting of the ravenous hordes of zombies that threaten our very existence night and day. But fortunately, it's now winter break, so two of those three things have been temporarily eliminated. Zombies never take time off, but at least I'll have a bit more time to publish updates. And to those of you who I owe reviews to (looking at you, iNf3ctioNZ), I haven't forgotten! I'll get them done, I promise!**

**I also feel obligated to point out that in my mad rush to get this to the presses, so to speak, and tired as I am right now at almost 2:30 in the morning, my proofreading my have not been quite up to snuff. If there is some stuff (which I'm sure there will be), I'll make another revision to this come morning.**

**Please read and review!  
**

Chapter 6

Beneath Flickering Lights

Blood spills from the wound, running around and through my closed fingers, slowly dripping to the floor on the other side, forming a beautifully grotesque montage of shimmering crystal on the floor, illuminated by the fiery half-light. It takes a moment for my brain to register the sensation, which, after the momentary delay, shoots like a bolt of electricity surging through my nerves, and I scream in pain.

Looking up, I see a lone man in one of the Cerberus uniforms raise his pistol once more, see his finger tighten around the trigger. I don't see the bullet as it rushes past, cleaving through the air, I only see the result of its impact, smashing heavily into Peraza's chest beside me, the blood flowing freely from the torn, shredded skin, the fountain eventually slowing, becoming a mere river, no longer projecting jets into the air. The sound of the discharge of the gun follows, shattering my ear drums, and I find myself once again crying out; I can feel the strain of my throat, feel my mouth moving. The air remains silent around me, as if someone has turned the volume off the world.

Turning back around, I watch helplessly as the man returns his attention to me, gun centered on my forehead. In movies, the evil man with the gun always smiles before he pulls the trigger, but his face remains passive and stoic, almost as if the death is just an unpleasant formality. I raise my arm over my head, knowing it will do little to stop the bullet once it is propelled at near supersonic speed, but I cling to the desperate, foolish hope that, perhaps if I finally get lucky, the bullet will be deflected by a bone or some other tissue in my arm, knocking it off course just enough to keep me alive a few seconds more, leave me one more opening at escape.

My pistol lies several feet away, to out of reach for me to have any chance at seizing the weapon should I make a move, knowing doing so will only serve to further open my vital organs to the man's fire. Unconsciously, I feel the muscles on my arm clench tightly, adrenaline pumping into my arteries, helping me forget the pain in my shoulder. I savor the feeling, fearing it will be the last I ever experience. I clench my eyes shut tightly, not wanting to see the last tightening against the trigger, not wanting to look on my final moments. Suddenly, I feel the cold rush of wind whip past me, feel my muscles contract even further, sit in confusion as I sense an unnamed, unknown power wash about me, filling the room. Suddenly, the wind stops, and I hear a sharp intake of breath, followed quickly by a heavy thud. The bullet does not come.

After a moment, I open my eyes, only to see the man sitting upright against the wall. Through the center of his forehead, a metal bar protrudes, blood running down to the jagged edge, where it cascades to the floor in a glistening, hauntingly beautiful flowing ribbon of shining color. I look down at my own body, assessing any damage that might have been done, but discounting the hole in my shoulder that continues to shed occasional tears of red, I am unharmed. With a start, I notice the rapidly receding blue aura that is slowly draining from my skin, leaving behind a slightly euphoric sensation where the shimmering color leaves my skin, dissolving into the smoky atmosphere. I curl my fingers, looking over them, as if they will some how hold the answers to all the questions I have, but they only serve to allow me another view of the diffusion of biotic energy.

Suddenly, the realization of my brush with death strikes me, as the adrenaline slowly begins to drain with the strange azure force. The dead man's stare remains fixed upon me, accusing. I shift uncomfortably under the cold, distant gaze, devoid of emotion, yet still haunting, holding a threatening promise.

I glance nervously to my right, and my eyes light upon another body, this one still alive, chest seeming to rise and fall in time to the steady beat of the ship's system, slowly growing softer as the fire consumed their hardware. With a final gasp, the machinery slowly died in a shower of sparks, even as Dennis Peraza's own breathing grew ever more slowly and ragged.

I drag my battered body across the floor to his side, grimacing in pain as each new shift jars my shoulder, the bone shattered to pieces from the bullet's impact. The sleeve of the shirt is stained crimson, the artificial light bathing it in a dark, ominous glow. With a final furtive glance over my shoulder at the dead Cerberus man, I start with a small shock as I notice his eyes seem to have followed me, but it is a mere illusion, a trick of the dim illumination and my own blood-deprived brain. My eyes light upon a pane of glass, a small crack twisting across its surface like a river of shimmering crystal, and I notice my reflection. My dark brown hair is matted with sweat and blood to my forehead, my eyes sunk deep in their sockets, the skin underneath lined with deep shadows. I almost don't recognize my own familiar features, shrouded as they are underneath a weary mask.

A faint whimper breaks through my temporary stupor, but it remains dull, as if heard through water, unable to register completely through my damaged eardrums. Startled, I glance around furiously, trying to determine the noise's origin, once again feeling the rush of adrenaline, my head clearing, the world seeming as if a cloth has been pulled away, revealing it in all its true, horrific grandeur. But as my eyes scan back and forth, I finally remember my reason for my excruciating traversal of the floor, my reason for further opening the still gushing wound in my shoulder, the blood running in rivulets down my arm, staining my skin, turning it a sickly brown in the dim light. Dennis's eyes are turned on me weakly, his lips barely able to continue muttering their feeble, pleading mantra. The words have ceased to become intelligible, strings of sounds slurred together, impossible to differentiate between one and the next.

Frantically, I continue my push to reach his side, redoubling my efforts with this strange, newfound energy. His chest is a gruesome sight, severed, jagged arteries hanging limp, the contents slowly draining downwards into the hole left by the bullet, down below where sight ends, the shadows concealing where the wound finally comes to an end. True fear is present in his face, his eyes glancing around the room frantically, mouth still moving, but the sound now utterly extinguished. I run my hands across his body, searching the floor around him in a furious frenzy, each passing second leaving me more and more hopeless. Finally, my fingers curl around what they have been so desperately searching for, the small vial of medigel. Held within my fist, the tube looks so miniscule, so fragile, so insubstantial beside the mess of gore that once moved, talked, lived like a man. I press the needle against his chest, sliding the thin tip into a bit of undamaged skin, praying I somehow managed to hit an artery. For a moment, nothing happens, Peraza'a eyes beginning to slow in their wild, erratic movements, heavily lids beginning to close, only to be snapped open in one final burst of willpower. It doesn't last, however, and they close once more. This time, they don't reopen. After what seems like ages, the medigel reaches the torn ends of the arteries, slowly sealing them, staunching the flow of blood, slowly reaching out to reattach the frayed ends, small bits of nanotechnology working to bring the damaged vessels back together before they are dispensed by the immune system.

Slowly, agonizingly, the blood flow ceases, but glancing upwards, I see Peraza's eyes, still locked shut, his mouth closed, chest unmoving. A haunting calm has passed across his face, no longer twisted in a grimace of pain and fear, peace found as his consciousness slips away for the last time. A sudden jolting rush rocks my body, and before I can ever register what I'm doing, my hands cup into a small ball, compressing on his chest, up and down rhythmically. Just like they taught in the health class at my school all those years ago. Even as my hands work furiously, I try to recall the ratio, but the number escapes my memory. I curse silently, wary of any noise alerting more of the attackers to my presence, vulnerable and unprepared as I am for further conflict. My palms find a steady rhythm against the man's chest, following along to an imaginary beat, the repetition almost losing me my concentration, my mind beginning to wander with the constant motion. Stop, two breaths, make sure both nose and mouth are covered. Return to chest pressure, two more breaths. The rhythm repeats itself subconsciously, and for a moment I lose track of where I am, what it is I'm doing, transfixed by the makeshift beat, the endless repetition of the cycle.

A sharp crack snaps me from the stupor, my hands jerking forward, falling into the still open chest cavity, my hands ripping against the jagged ends of bone. Horrifies, I see the cracked ends of multiple ribs protruding like stems from the man's shirt, small pools of blood adorning each macabre bloom. With a final desperate hope, I glance at his face, searching desperately for any sign of life, but his eyes remain closed on the monstrosity, the permanent tranquility still frozen in place, unaware of his further trauma. Already knowing the effort is futile, I hold my hand before Peraza's face, desperately hoping to feel even the slightest rush of exhaled air, something to tell me I have saved the life of the man who had likely saved my own. No breath graces my blood-stained fingertips, and I sit back, an unexplained sense of sadness washing over me at the sudden loss.

The dead Cerberus man continues to stare at me unflinchingly, accusing. _You could have saved him, you could have acted faster. You as good as killed him yourself. I wonder what family he's never going to go back to. Aren't you curious?_

The thoughts invade my mind, almost as of an outsider. I try to force them away, but the relentless ideas have taken root, and, no matter how I try to rationalize the events, I can't escape the blame I continue to pile on myself. A panic begins to rise in my throat, a wild terror whose origins I do not know and cannot fathom, and I quickly spring to my feet. My hands begin to smash against the sealed door behind me, seemingly of their own accord, mindless of the pain caused to my already lacerated palms, the wounds opened by Peraza's snapped bones continuing to weep blood. The seals on the door remain shut fast, but I continue to lash out violently against it, heedless of the open vacuum that resides on the opposite end of the sealed passage.

As the pain finally registers, I grimace, and slide down the wall, back rested firmly against the door. Once again, I am met with the unblinking stare. Rivers of blood have made their way down his face, adorning it with running patterns branching outwards from the metal bar that still extends through the center of his forehead.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoes throughout the room, reverberating up and down the metal passageways and back again, so that it is impossible to determine the source. I reach down to my side instinctively, like I've seen so many times in movies, expecting to feel the cold, reassuring presence of the weapon, but my hand grasps at nothing, my fingers only closing on air. I look up quickly, my eyes whipping across the ground, searching for the small pistol amidst the mass of blood that has begun to cover the floor, spreading in a crimson pool. A dull gleam catches my eye, and, hidden in a reflection of one of the fading, flickering overhead lights, the gun lays. Breathing a sigh of relief, I quickly drag myself along the ground to retrieve it.

"Don't move."

* * *

**A/N: Now, the obligatory credit song:**

**Slightly Out Of Reach - James LaBrie**

http :/ www. / watch?v= R7JBN6O69as


	7. Hangar Bay

**A/N: Alright, so, once again I must apologize for an extended absence. Several things have gotten in the way of publication, mainly, finals, rehearsals for The Crucible (so worth it; it's turning out incredibly well), and closing wraps on the movie script I've been writing, and the beginnings of pre-production with the other director who is sharing duties with me. So, because of those last two aspects, the next update may also take awhile, but I sincerely hope not as long as this one. I have once again fallen behind on reviews as well, for the same reasons, and I am really sorry, I never intended things to work out like that, but sometimes things just snowball, and pile one on top of the other. So, I'll stop taking up time with this surely tedious author's note, and let the chapter begin! After the necessary reminder to please read and review, and to extend a sincere thanks to those who already have. I appreciate it so much, and I've really enjoyed writing this up till this point. Additionally, if you see any mistakes grammatically, please point them out! I haven't had as much proofreading time with this one, so if there are any offenders that insult your years of taking English classes, I will fix them tomorrow! Now, without further ado...  
**

Chapter 7

Hangar Bay

"Oh my God, what have you done?" The voice is different than the other, meek and horrified, and I can imagine his eyes scanning across the body on the floor in the corner, chest opened grotesquely, the blood shimmering in strangely beautiful patterns as it cascades to the floor, the pool creeping ever outwards.

"Shoot him now," the original voice shouts back angrily, and I tense, still facing away from the two men behind me, feeling a pair of eyes boring into the back of my head, praying to some higher being that there isn't a gun barrel pointing with them. There is a brief pause as the second man considers the offer.

"We can't do that, it's against all regulations. We'd be dismissed from the Alliance." I hear the words spoken, and breathe in sharply. Until now, I've been cooperating with them, but as the adrenaline from the last few minutes, the hectic race with Peraza away from where Ian's and Mikael's bodies presumably still lay undisturbed, frozen eyes staring forlornly at the world they can no longer see. Now, though, my calming mind gives me the chance to wonder what it is that's going on. Why is Cerberus attacking the Alliance?

"I don't think our superiors are going to be too concerned about protocol, the way things are looking right now."

"Our superiors are always uptight about this kind of thing. Frankly, if we did just kill him here, and I was booted, I honestly have nowhere else to go."

"Family disown you or something?"

"As good as. I've been in hot water with the whole lot of them for awhile. But my personal problems are as far from the current issue as I think we could possibly be right now. This conversation can be put on hold until after we aren't getting slaughtered by these assholes. In the meantime, we should at least take him with us. Better that than find out he is working for Cerberus, and get stabbed in the back. Or shot. Or whatever other tactics they're using to undermine everything we've worked to achieve now. They've probably got some horrible instrument of torture devised for their own personal amusement, sadistic bastards."

"They'd only use that on aliens. Even if they are fighting us, they aren't so inhumane as to feed us to their fleshy woodchipper." The voice suddenly hardens, coldly addressing me, restrained hatred clear underneath the forced professional detachment. "Get up."

"I'm not with who's attacking you," I speak up suddenly, fear of what might quickly be done to me forcing me to speak, barely thinking of the words that pass my lips as I plead desperately, praying I inadvertently speak the words that might save me. "I was trying to save Dennis, but I couldn't help him, that bastard over there shot him," I say gesturing frantically at the body impaled on the wall beside them, until now remaining unobserved with their attention riveted as it was upon the fallen Alliance marine collapsed morosely on the floor that twinkled in the artificial twilight.

I turn my head slowly, watching as the man on the left steps gingerly across the floor as if the slightest vibration will set the body to once again walking. He leans over to inspect the corpse, staring fiercely into the passive, vacant eyes that are just barely visible underneath the deep shadows that strive desperately to obscure the unblinking orbs. The Cerberus insignia is proudly displayed on his shirt's sleeve; small, almost unnoticeable flecks of blood adorn the image's horns.

"You expect us to believe that?" asks the man who still stands upright behind me furiously. "You'll excuse us, of course, if we aren't taking your word at face value, here. It just comes across as a bit suspicious if you come in on an unmarked vessel, and then we're suddenly ambushed by a Cerberus vessel after we take you in for questioning. I'd try to sympathize with you, but I'm still not at all convinced that you're the bastard who brought all this in the first place. I'm still barely restraining my trigger finger as it is, and you can thank my partner here for that. If he hadn't reminded me of the regulations, there might be several new holes in your skull."

"That doesn't mean we aren't taking you into custody, of course," the other man replies, standing from his brief examination. "He definitely isn't out of the woods yet. Although, now that the attack's essentially over, and he's subdued, I don't think we have too much to worry about, aside from the clean-up," he adds, turning to face the other man, attention diverted to the flickering lights, the sparks that jump freely from servers that stand along the walls, battered and broken."

"You don't seem to broken up over Peraza's death," I add suddenly, unaware from where my sudden courage came from, coupled with a newfound hatred for these two men who stand chatting so casually amidst the carnage.

"How can you accuse us of being uncompassionate?" the first man shouts angrily, voice instantly rising to such a fearsome intensity that it causes me to wince instinctually. "You come in here, murder our own people in cold blood, and say we aren't broken up enough over their death?" Before the other man can stop him, the first steps quickly forward, and sends a swift quick to my ribs, grimacing in pain and fear as I hear a sharp crack resonate throughout the echoing chamber. I feel my body crash to floor, the sudden contact making me inhale swiftly, the breath sending waves of pain coursing through my chest, like the sweeping tongues of fire that I can still see burning further down the empty hallway.

I try to roll away from the sudden assault, but the pain only redoubles with the motion, setting the world about me to ringing with an unbearable shriek that seems to pierce the very air itself, the previously distinct images blurring through the tears that spring suddenly to my eyes. Squinting, I try to see through the distorted lines, a figure above me slowly swimming into slight focus from the surrounding landscape. A soft click, and it takes my brain, addled by pain as it is, a moment to register the gun pointed down towards my face, the finger that rests curled and tense about the trigger, the man holding the weapon all too eager to simply pull inwards a little farther. The world seems to grow still, his eyes boring resolutely into mine, the anger replaced by an almost calm detachment that is belied by the stiff muscles, the subtle furrowing of his brow. Quickly, a second hand stabs outward, fingers clenching around the man's wrist; a brief struggle, the unseen owner of the hand slowly emerging victories as the pistol re-enters a holster attached to the first's hip. Words are whispered, but I slowly lose focus as to their meaning, trying to focus on the vibrations of the sound, whispering gently through the floor against which I rest, desperately seeking to block out the pain that seems to permeate existence.

I don't remember closing my eyes, but they open as I feel a small needle penetrate the skin of my chest, almost indiscernible against the raging inferno that consumes the area. The room is the same, but the man who leans over me now is different than the one who stood above me so recently. I try to sit up, but I take a sharp increase of breath and the sudden agony, and the man pushes my head back to the cold floor.

"Try not to move for as long as possible. From what it looks like, you have two, maybe three broken rips, none of which are connected to your sternum. At this point, I'd say you lucky as hell nothing pierced a long. You think this hurts now? Count your blessings." The voice is soft, but cold, detached, accusing of an unnamed crime.

"Why are you helping this asshole?" another voice calls out, this one unrestrained, rising in pitch angrily. The same voice I had heard earlier, that of an unseen man standing behind me, holding my life in his hands, the same heard in whispers as he stood above me, the barrel of a gun shoved in my face.

"Do you have any proof he's the one that killed Dennis?"

"I can't definitively say anything, no, but nothing else makes any rational sense, whatsoever!"

"I agree! But you act as if we're letting him go! We aren't, just suspending a judgment regarding his involvement until more facts come forth."

"And in the meantime?"

"He'll be coming with us."

"I thought you were posing as the Good Samaritan here. Making a man with three broken ribs walk seems out of your current character."

"Funny, I thought you'd enjoy watching his misery, considering your large contribution to it," the man leaning over me said, his voice suddenly accusing.

"Don't act like you didn't want to see him go down as much as I did."

"If you think this is an acting job I'm doing right now, than I thank you for the compliment. But I think I must clarify, this here is quite real. What happens if he should turn out to be innocent? The consequences of this violence will be even more severe than if he is responsible for this attack when they see it's recorded in the misdemeanor report I file."

"You're going to report me for trying to subdue a murderer?" came the angrily incredulous question.

"I'm going to report you for endangering the life of a possibly innocent suspect."

"I cannot believe this!"

"Good then, don't. We have work to do now, anyway." The man above turns his attention away from my now hidden attacker. "You seemed in a rush to get up earlier. Well, congratulations, now's your chance."

I hesitate, glancing up fearfully, the injury still throbbing malevolently, frozen in a desperate bid for self preservation.

"Look, just because I defended you here doesn't mean I'm any less incredulous than him over there, and I sure as hell am not going to leave a likely killer alone after we've already experienced several deaths here, many of which seem to have been conspicuously involved in the job of interrogating you when this attack began. So you either bite the bullet, take some drugs in addition to the medigel I've already used, or I let Mr. Hathorne over there have his way, without filing this one in a report."

"You would not do that, not with all the security cameras I've sure you have watching this place."

"Well, it is a proper lawyer!" the man laughs with unconvincing jubilation, his voice almost once again returning to its restrained menace. "Not all the cameras are still working after this attack. You happen to be directly in one of this room's blind spots."

"And how would you have this information if the attack has only occurred in the last few minutes?" I ask suddenly, a surge of anger momentarily deadening the pain at his perceived betrayal, reversion to the side of my attacker.

"Graham Corey, engineering division. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Now get up and start walking, or Mr. Hathorne continues where he left off."

"Give me the morphine," I suddenly demand, remembering the previous promise. I see Corey look off to the side and quickly shake his head, a confused look suddenly plastered across his face, replaced quickly by one of dawning understanding.

"So you are with Cerberus," Corey suddenly says nodding his head, a new venom hidden in his eyes.

"What did I do?" I ask suddenly, shocked into speech by the rapid accusation.

"Surely The Illusive Man would have told you by know that morphine hasn't been used since the Alliance's inception, not with the new plants they've discovered on Eden Prime. And it just so happens that quite recently we intercepted a Cerberus vessel carrying packages of morphine on board. Which would make sense, considering your group wouldn't be able to keep a constant supply of somni on hand for wide use, what with your being unable to access the surface of Eden Prime and harvest the supplies in the first place."

"No!" I interject, the rapid exhale causing me to wince in pain. I try to quickly think of an excuse, saying only, "I'm from Earth. Where I was, we were in a poorer neighborhood, without access to the higher level medications."

"Well then, if you and your neighborhood bodies were shooting up morphine, than you were just using illegal drugs. Do you really think opium drugs are just in constant circulation?"

"Of course! There's a huge opium trade! I was never involved in buying or selling, but in those types of seedy locations, it's impossible not to know someone who is!"

"Fair enough," the man sighs. "Although, I'd never be able to indict you with the kind of evidence, anyway. Here," he adds, drawing out a small needle from a compartment besides his holster on the belt. I watch him slide the tip slowly through my now tattered shirt, a small pinprick of blood welling out around the puncture. A brief, agonizing stinging sends me gritting my teeth before a ripple of numbness spreads out like waves on a lake when a stone is dropped within, the sensation slowly growing greater, the former anguish nearly a memory.

"Now, stand up. We have to get moving, and like I said, we aren't leaving you behind here, especially now that you should be quite mobile enough to stab us in the back as we walk away." He gives the unseen man a brief nod, and steps towards the door still stuck fast. Just as his fingers begin to work at a panel, I feel a rough hand reach down and grab me by the collar, yanking me painfully to my feet, and I am unable to suppress a brief yelp of surprise.

"Get up," the voice whispers harshly, spitefully. "I'm determined not to be as kind and loving as my friend over there. I believe it's in your best interests to be up and walking right about now." Fearfully, I press my hands against the ground and strain upwards, slowly gaining a hesitant footing once again. A soft click sounds as a gun unfolds, and I feel the barrel press forcefully between my shoulder blades immediately after.

The door ahead swings open, the way from which I had first left the strange shuttle, slowly growing lost in the bowels of the relative behemoth now blocked by an improvised airlock. "That explains the seal," Corey says softly, almost to himself. "Gentlemen, now might be the appropriate time to suit up into standard zero gravity and vacuum apparel."

"That would be a brilliant request if I had anything on me," I shoot back, staring at the door that suddenly seems all too thin for a safeguard against the unstoppable juggernaut of space, waiting hungrily to consume me as it had almost done before, the time so near I can still remember the heat of the exploding ship.

In response, Graham Corey merely steps over to a panel in the wall that still remains firmly attached, pressing his fingertips lightly against it. For the briefest moment, it glows a soft green, the hidden door swinging open with a pneumatic hiss. From within, he draws out a thin glass mask, a pair of heavy boots, and a thin bodysuit. "Put these on. They may not look like standard military issue wear, and they aren't, but at least you won't have your skin boiled and your internal organs pulled out from every single opening in your body," Corey says, a note of mocking humor creeping into his voice.

"I appreciate the sentiment," I respond, furrowing my eyebrows into disgust. "I might be even more ecstatic I didn't have several broken ribs, and my intense joy here is because I'm hopped up on drugs."

"Well, if you're so ungrateful, we could always just put these back and push you through the open airlock. That'll save us a lot of trouble of finding evidence against you, come to think of it," Hathorne says, beginning to trail off, his eyes turning to meet Graham's cold blue ones. "The more I contemplate it, the more enticing that idea actually seems."

"Well, it's settled, then!" Corey responds, his voice still masked by forced joviality. "I'd say it's in your best interests to put that on before we start really second guessing ourselves."

Under two wrathful stares, I slide the skintight fabric over my body, the jostling of the fabric enough to momentarily break through the medicine's barriers, my subsequent grimace and rapid inhalation temporarily clearing the slight haze that has begun to creep its way into the corners of my eyes. My hyperventilating slowly ceases as the heavy pressure of the material against my ribs slowly adjusts to the outline of my form, my own body in turn growing accustomed to the now omnipresent force. For the briefest period, I am suddenly gripped by an inexplicable claustrophobia, mind already suppressed by a thick, increasingly impenetrable fog, trying to rationalize the sudden restraint on movement, the slowed reactions. My hands rise to meet my face, the gloved hands unable to detect the cold sweat that has broken out. Breathe. Slowly, once, twice. Repeat. I feel the sudden terror begin to ebb, feeling the ever more impatient stares upon me. The boots follow the suit, my feet suddenly being jerked forcible to the ground, sending me stumbling for a moment, the faltering steps heavy and awkward as the magnets within work against the motion. I collapse to my knees, the impact sending a shudder up my spine, another scream ripping through the drug's confusion.

I push myself to me feet, legs still shaking, breathing shaky and desperate. I look downwards, and glimpse the last piece still clutched tightly in my grip. I raise the mask to my face, the glass sending the world slightly out of focus. Blinking quickly, my eyes begin to adjust to the slightly elongated figures, the two Alliance remains already turning to face the door, breathing apparatuses long since donned, waiting.

Time seems to slow as the second door slides open. As if in a dream, the sound of the surrounding machines, the dying crackle of the fire as it makes its final bid to rise a phoenix from the embers, all cut away. I look around in confusion, the only thing remaining my own heavy breathing echoing like a thunderclap in my ears. Returning my eyes before me, I stop just in time to avoid stumbling headfirst into the two men who have both paused in my path, transfixed.

I turn my gaze upwards, and stare transfixed at the gaping hole torn through the hull of the ship as if it were mere paper, jagged edges ripped towards the opening like they were blown by a strong wind, but they do not waver, and stay fixed in the position. Eyes slowly scanning across the room, I start in shock at where the shuttle I had been flown in on is gone, the docking clamps torn raggedly from where they had rested against the ship, many hanging limply, sections ripped from their metal bases, the inner wiring tattered and exposed by the violence of space. All the freestanding machinery that had stood on the walls earlier is gone, the great docking bay standing vacated and desolate, the vaulted ceiling seeming to rise to even greater heights observing the abandoned terrain over which it reigns. In the middle of the floor, however, two objects are stretched flat across the floor, unmoving, defying all objects in their resolute grip upon the ground. I squint, trying to make out the shapes, but my vision has become blurred, and the strain begins to initiate a headache. Shutting my eyes tightly, I breathe in and out slowly, trying to focus my thoughts. Opening my eyes, I see my hand stray dangerously close to a small button on the sleeve of the suit I stand in, the knob one of several small ones on a control panel in a slightly tougher wrist panel. Small writing above cautions of a magnetic release for the boots which are still anchored firmly underfoot, each step requiring a new burst of effort, the going slow and arduous.

I raise my sight to the objects once again, and see Hathorne and Corey lean over the indistinct shapes, crouching down to examine them more closely, constantly shooting furtive glances in my directions, checking my hands remain at my sides, their own resting lightly on the handles of their guns, fingers clenching nervously.

I place one foot deliberately before the other, gradually nearing where the two men squat, leaning forwards on their toes, a look of shock clearly visible on Graham's face as he looks over his partner's head to watch my approach. He slowly stands, eyes never leaving my hands, his rise alerting Hathorne to my presence, as well. The taller man follows the action, and past his ascending body, I see the outline of the first form, a bodysuit not unlike my own pulled hastily on over his clothing, mask pressed tightly down against his face. His own boots anchor the still corpse firmly to the floor. A small puncture wound is visible underneath the helmet's chin piece, slashed tubes leading to the oxygen canisters loose. His face is pale and gaunt, the sudden force of the vacuum entering the pressurized compartment sucking the skin tightly against his cheekbones. His eyes are locked in an eternal grimace of pain during his last moments.

Suddenly, I am struck by brutal recognition. He was one of the men who came with me onto the shuttle after the crash I was awakened in the midst of. A quick glance at the other figure, fallen close by reveals the same short piercing identification, his own face mirroring that of his fallen companion.

I turn around from the grotesque image, to see a lone man in a Cerberus uniform sneak steadily behind Corey's turned back, raising a thin knife, gray and dull in the murky shadows of the bay. I yell out, and wince as the sound reverberates painfully within my helmet, and is contained within, the man remaining oblivious to his approaching attacker, Hathorne already bent once again over the first of the bodies, examining it for details.

A rising sense of helpless panic rises in my chest, the sudden realization that the man with the knife will come for me. I look back at the bodies, my mind turning to the slashed oxygen hoses, knowing I am trapped in this place as well as any prison, the door back to the ship shut fast. Step by step, the man edges closer to the man who had tried to dissuade my previous attacker, and the sense of defenselessness only increases. I reach out, struggling to recall the sensation of the biotics passing through my nerves, but the sense remains lost, hidden in some forgotten recess of my mind, unforthcoming through the ether.

Desperation sends me flailing, ignoring the pain in my side that ignites with the motion, growing consistently worse as I search for something, anything, with which to intervene. Without warning, I recall the button, the magnetic release of the boots that keep me tied to Earth. I shake the thought aside, hoping for a more reasonable plan, but nothing else presents itself. Shaking my head, fighting off the rising panic at the thought of the final lashing against certain death, one that will almost certainly lead to the same fate, I move, aligning myself with the opposite wall of the bay, assuring the would be attacker remains in the trajectory.

I slam downwards on the button, springing forth from the platform even as I feel the constant pressure immediately relax its firm grip. My body rockets through space, the distance closing before I can even adjust my perceptions to account for the sudden loss of up and down.

I slam roughly into the man, unable to hear the grunt of surprise he issues as a mist glazes over his mask from the sudden exhalation. The knife spirals outwards, suspended useless in the air, slowly drifting towards the gaping mouth, eager to swallow the tool into the endless Cosmos, lost to all for eternity.

We collide into the wall, a mass of struggling limbs, interwoven arms almost indecipherable. Taken off guard by the sudden attack, I regain my with first, grasping either side of his helmet, bringing it solidly against the wall, striking the man within a ringing blow as his head meets the inside of the container. As I bring it back once more, I see a smear of blood decorating the interior of the unit, the man's nose crushed flat against his face in a pulp. Without pause, I repeat the motion, not hearing as the glass begins to chip away, a hairline fracture stretching like a spider web across the outer surface, not yet broken through the seal. The motion grows repetitive, a practiced, monotonous rhythm. Finally, with one last impact, I watch as chunks of glass slowly diffuse into the surrounding emptiness like so many shimmering crystals. Beads of blood follow, hanging in clumps that adorn the surroundings as a testament to the final moments of he who had shed them.

I let go of the body, looking away before it turns to show me the face, force me to accept what I had just done. I begin to wretch, but wrestle down the building impulse, allowing myself to focus on the tortuous pain in my chest from the impact, the injury now behind the capabilities of any drug to repress.

* * *

**A/N: Credit song for chapter 7:**

**You Were But A Ghost In My Arms - Agalloch **

http :/ www. youtube. com /watch?v= wTzPihhzmQY


	8. Interrogation

**A/N: Okay, this seems to have become somewhat of a repeated phrase on my recent uploads, but once again I must reiterate: I'm very sorry for the slow speed at which this is being updated. Life, harsh mistress as she is, has unfortunately come between me and the writing process in the last several months. One thing truly does lead to another. However, just recently the stars seemed to have aligned, and given me slightly more time to pursue this craft. Don't mistake me; future updates still won't be cluttering the Mass Effect archive, at least not at this point in time. There is a time for summer speed updates, and I believe its fairly obvious what time that is. Looking outside my window, it doesn't seem to have reached that point quite yet, although it is drawing closer with each passing day. So there won't be iNf3ctioNZ-style publication speed yet, but I hope to decrease the time continuously over the coming months, and get up to that point. Additionally, I'm tuckered out at the moment, and Microsoft word grammar check is notoriously poor at actually doing the job it's supposed to, so the combination of awful technical assistance, and an utterly exhausted brain have essentially insured that not every mistake has been caught. I'll try to proofread over the next couple of days, try to fix the odds and ends that slipped by, but if you see anything and would like to help me out in that task, feel free! But now I've rambled too much, and I believe it's time to read (and review) the chapter, as is quite obviously you're intention. Unless you came to read the Author's Note solely, in which case feel free to save it for posterity. Enjoy!**

Chapter 8

Interrogation

My breathing is short and shallow, shock beginning to set in. As the world begins its slow, dramatic fade to black, I see the two now distant figures moving towards me, as if wading through water. Then, the curtain falls, and I am drawn into the welcoming black embrace.

No dreams haunt the sudden, forced slumber. I'm only aware of existence as a throbbing pain in my chest calls me back, the sensation dull, almost as if someone else is experiencing it. Voices drift from around me, above my head, at my sides.

"His heart rate's spiking. Anesthesia seems to be wearing off."

"Well, give him another dose, damn it!" came an angry response, as if scolding a child. "Waking up halfway through a surgical procedure can be a pretty scarring. I don't know what he's doing here either, but I'd still appreciate if he didn't go absolutely insane under my authority."

The words jar my eyes open, fighting against the fatigue that beckons me back into the ether. But before I can force the lids to remain open, I feel a tiny prick on my arm. Within seconds, my battle is lost, senses dulling, and my eyes closing not of my own accord once more.

The soft hospital bed is absent. I rest now on a mattress, soft, but reeking of stale sweat. This time, I quickly open my eyes unhindered. The voices that had surrounded my previous resting place are absent; the only sound the occasional beeping of surrounding monitors. I sit up slowly, even the subtle movement accompanied by the sudden onslaught of a fierce headache. The world spins a moment, and for the briefest moment, I feel my muscles contract violently, the contortions sending me sprawling back downwards. I recognize the abrupt, short-lived surge as the same sensation that had met me after the release of biotic energy. However, the room remains undisturbed, and the telltale fading blue aura is absent from my body.

What the hell is happening to me? What am I doing here?

For a moment, the prison remains silent, only the humming of the machinery that still works disturbing the tense peace. Then, the door slides open, admitting a figure into the room.

"Glad to see you're finally awake," she says snidely. "I was getting bored. I'm no engineer, that's for damn sure, and I have no clue how to fix all this shit, and the only way I could be of help is if somebody needs a piece of tape to fix the hull."

"Nice to know the tape is good enough to keep out the currents of space," I answer back.

"You aren't exactly in the best position to be making remarks," she responds condescendingly, gesturing around the interior to accentuate the point.

"Thanks for the tip. I had no idea," I say, mock shock creeping into my voice. 'When did that get there?' I mouth silently, widening my eyes at the metal walls, and the clear glass panels that comprise the door.

"You know, I can pretty much guarantee most people on here want to put a bullet in your head, and despite your," she trails off a moment, as if searching for a word, "charming disposition, you aren't doing much to help your cause here. I'd recommend sitting down and shutting up, before my hand slips and you accidentally wind up with a bullet in your brain, comprende?"

"Sí, señorita," comes my enthusiastic response. In reply, she merely pulls a pistol from the belt around her waist, and lays it on the table in the corner, barrel pointed squarely at my chest. That's one way to abbreviate a conversation.

"Alright, I'm going to ask you some questions here, and I sincerely hope you cut the bullshit. In spite of my cheerful demeanor at the moment, it's actually not been the best of days, believe it or not. I have friends who have died here, and you're conduct now is almost as if you were spitting on their graves before they're even laid to rest. I don't even know where this is coming from, quite frankly; everyone still alive who's been in contact with you, and that number is quite minuscule, believe it or not, says you've been fairly tight-lipped."

Seeing three people get shot through the face in the space of five minutes will have a tendency to shut me up, actually. Jesus, I need to get off this ship. These people seem to be just as much a danger to my life expectancy as the Cerberus operatives. My brief contemplation is interrupted as the woman begins to speak again.

"What do you know about what happened here?" she asks, voice now composed, her eyes blank of emotion, staring at me expectantly. A small device has now been placed beside the gun on the table, small lights projecting an image in the air, marked by the unmistakable red circle indicating a recording. Nice to see those haven't been done away with. Some things never change.

"I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on," I answer truthfully. "I don't know how I ended up here; Christ, I don't even know where this place is!" I hesitate before adding on my just waking up here, in a completely parallel universe. I should probably save that in case I have to plead insanity.

"You just woke up on that ship just as we happened to pull it onboard, just before we happened to be attacked by a terrorist organization?"

"It isn't my fault the situation sounds unbelievable! I always did get the worst luck."

"Well, what was that ship that you were on prior to its destruction doing?"

"I…I don't know." My voice drops, and I look down at the floor, suddenly realizing the hopelessness of the entire situation, how every word sounds like a lie, even to myself. I close my eyes as they stare resolutely downwards, praying for some form of divine intervention. Nothing else has worked for me since I landed up here.

"How can you possible not know what that ship was?"

"I have absolutely no fucking idea, okay?" I shout, an inexplicable anger rising in my chest, finally feeling the animalistic instinct to lash out, after being backed into a corner. "I don't know! It could have been a medical ship, or something!"

"With a total of four crewmembers? Forgive me if that sounds a tad sensational. Not to mention the fact that you were its sole passenger. Especially considering that only the richest people in society have the capital on hand to purchase their own private medical ship and staff, and what with your being not even registered as a galactic citizen, that completely invalidates the entire claim, as if the other reasons I just said didn't already accomplish that task quite effectively!"

"I never said that was the reason," I hiss out through clenched teeth, trying to restrain the anger that had just boiled to the surface. "I already clearly stated I have no idea what the hell is going on. I was just providing an apparently baseless explanation."

"Then can you explain why it's no longer here, at least?" the woman asks, voice betraying a sense of growing impatience.

"Well considering I've been in your custody ever since I was pulled on here, I don't think it's all that feasible that that question is going to be receiving an answer, truth be told." The naiveté of the question momentarily stuns me, and I shake my head disapprovingly upon the answer. Something distinctly tells me that these questions weren't orchestrated by the deepest thinkers. That, or they were simply given off the cuff by this woman; truth be told, that would probably confirm both of those possibilities.

Exhaling exasperatedly at my answer, she pauses a brief moment, composing herself, before pressing resolutely onwards. "Let's move on to a different subject that is, hopefully, less contentious than the last."

"You're blaming me for the topic sounding contentious when I am physically unable to answer the questions that you're asking me in the first place? Jesus Christ, I'm glad I don't live in a military state if these are the way you run things up here!"

"Ah, and where would it be that you are from?" Damn it. I stop for a second, weighing my options. The question itself doesn't seem to hold to many dangers in and of itself, but I know nothing of the social situations on Earth, nor the political, or really anything beyond the most basic of allusions made in the game. The woman stares at me expectantly, eyes probing as if they could somehow burrow within, search out the non-existent answers she is searching for.

"America," I say, hesitatingly.

"Where?"

"Outside Chicago."

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe your story is authentic."

"Oh my God! Obviously, none of my stories, as you seem to perceive them, are authentic, so why don't you just throw me in some maximum security prison out God knows where in space somewhere?"

"Believe you me when I say that's a temptation that has crossed several minds on this ship. Not as many as the ones that just want you dead and ejected into space by the end of this flight, but there's enough high-rankers of the former mindset to keep us underlings from opening up a new hole in your head. But in response to the beginning of your outburst, the Alliance has taken the task of taking censes into their own hands, not only in the United States, but the world over. They aren't merely encouraged as they once were; every citizen is recorded, a replication of every DNA strand of anyone who has set foot on Earth in the last 20 years. You don't have a single match throughout our vast database. So I'd take the time to reconsider your answer."

"I already gave it to you? What do you want, for me to pull something that seems more feasible out of my ass and feed it to you to make your superiors happy? I'm telling you everything I know here!"

"You are certainly not doing anything to help your cause at the moment. You were in a hole when I came in here, but it seems you've somehow managed to dig yourself even deeper. What subject would you like to deny next?"

"Take your pick. That category seems to be in abundance."

"In that case, may I ask how many of you were on the ship as you left, including yourself?"

"Thanks for the leading question, Madame," I say, bowing my head in scornful reverence. "I also greatly think that it is unnecessary, given how you've already stated the answer just a short while before in this wholly cordial chat."

"And how many might that be?"

"Four others, in addition to myself. But you already knew that, so why don't you cut to the doubtlessly genius trap you've laid in asking that, being how you seem to know more about my history than I do myself."

"I'd ask you again to try to keep that endearing temperament in check for the duration of my time here. I'm finding it more and more difficult to believe that you were silent as a tomb when you came on here. I think my fellow crew must be delusional, based on my views here."

"By all means, bring one of them in!" I say cheerfully. "The arrival of some interesting company might do some good for my 'endearing temperament,' as I believe you so astutely put it."

"You're not in the position to be making requests here. And now, before you can throw in one of your seeming multitude of deeply scarring jibes, I think we may continue." She pauses again, and when she continues to speak, her voice has reverted to the cool, disaffected professionalism. "There were five of you on your ship before it was ripped apart in space. And yet, when your shuttle arrived here, there were only four of you left. Even later, during the attack, you left two comrades who came on that ship with you to die."

"Are you accusing me of being a coward, when you know full well there was absolutely no possible way for me to save them, first due to my being unconscious, and then being on this ship, under the watch of the Alliance while I was beginning to be interrogated?"

"Either that, or such an extreme, misguided supremacist that you'd kill other humans, who protect the existence of humanity, to advance some irrational, twisted goal that's utterly incomprehensible to any one with even an ounce of sanity."

"How about coming out and directly telling me what you're accusing me of?"

"How about coming out and confessing that you're a member of Cerberus, and that perhaps you even coordinated this attack?"

"You really are desperate to find me guilty of something he, aren't you? First off, this attack would give Cerberus absolutely nothing to gain."

"That's a considerably weak point, considering even you can't deny that they just assaulted us, without any provocation whatsoever."

"I can't speak on your providing absolutely no provocation," I begin angrily at the injustice of the interrogation that seems to be more of a condemnation, "but I guarantee you, the Alliance isn't nearly as angelic as you'd seem to make it out to be."

"If you know so much about the nature of their soles, without being one of them, kindly explain a reasonable explanation as to why the Hell you're hear, having this conversation with me in the first place!"

As she stands fuming, face pinched into tight wrinkles after the outburst, the door slides apart once more, admitting two more figures, both of whom I instantly recognize.

"Stand down, Jarvis," Corey says softly. "We've been reviewing footage from the security tapes that still worked after the initial impact from the enemy, and he doesn't seem to be allied with them, at least, not from what we can make out."

"What was on the footage?" she responds in a whisper, darting a still accusing glance in my direction as she speaks.

"He didn't fire a single shot with the gun he picked up, and when Peraza was shot, he actively attempted to perform CPR, even though the procedure was unsuccessful. It does seem fairly unreasonable to assume the enemy would actively try to revive a fallen opponent."

"So, are we going to let him go, just like that?" she bursts out incredulously. I can feel my heart rate accelerate at the sudden turn of events, praying that finally, perhaps an ounce of luck has finally begun to turn in my favor.

"It isn't nearly that simple," the other man responds, his thick Russian accent immediately identifiable. I glance down to see the bottom of his pant-leg rolled up to reveal a heavily wrapped bandage around the wound where the shard of wood had pierced sharply through. "He also seems to be a biotic. There's certainly more to his story than he would have us ascertain, even if he isn't working with Cerberus, per se."

Corey quickly picks up were the other man leaves off. "In that line, the higher-ups have decided to have us run some tests, conduct a psychological profile, anything we can to find out what exactly his real story is."

"Where might that be, since it seems like you've been leading up to this, anyway?" Jarvis asks, still unable to hide the full extent of her anger, but managing enough to keep her voice level, the only hint at the emotion the slightly strained note with which it is accentuated.

"Eden Prime."

* * *

**A/N: Credit song time! (Please note, if you also read After The Reapers, this song is by the same band that I used in the last credit song there as well. Not the same song, of course, but the band remains the same.) It isn't my fault Seventh Wonder make the greatest music the world as ever seen.**

**The Angelmaker - Seventh Wonder**

http :/www. youtube. com/ watch?v= gvf- 3we9RM8


	9. Flaming Sword of Eden

**A/N: Once again, here comes the flood of apologies about my distinct lack of publication. This time was entirely of my own doing, however. My schoolwork had taken a turn for the worse a few weeks ago, so I went on a temporary hiatus of all reading, writing, and reviewing anything on this site so as to bring my schoolwork back on track. Everything seems in working order, now though, as is likely evident by this publication. So now, just in time for Easter, I give you chapter 9! This is my gift to you in order to celebrate the day that Jesus made his apostles find a bunch of eggs hidden throughout the Middle East so that he could turn them into thousands of fish and loaves to feed a good Samaritan who had helped and old farmer find his estranged son, who had left home to find whether or not he should build his house on rock or sand. It's true. All of that is in the Bible. But this is a secular society, and nobody wants to be inundated with information regarding Chuck Norris on a regular basis, especially not here. So, without further ado, I present chapter 9!**

Chapter 9

Flaming Sword of Eden

The shuttle shifts subtly beneath my feet as the garden world existing as an omnipresent object in the sensors extends its gravitational reach outwards, wrapping thin, invisible tendrils around the small ship, drawing us ever closer inwards. Corey sits across from me, head bowed forward slightly, a blank expression plastered across his face, contemplating. I role my wrist around, the joint cracking slightly as I do so, still somewhat surprised that I haven't been chained in place, or physically restrained in some fashion, considering I've been struck many times over with the distinct feeling that I may not have made the greatest of first impressions.

My thoughts are quickly shattered, however, as the striking image of Eden Prime slowly fills the holographic projection screen against the wall of the shuttle. Green forest adorns the surface, clustered heavily beside streams of crystalline blue which trace lazy, twisting fingers around the globe. Even from our distance, the peaks of rocky crags can be made out against the deceptively Earth-like backdrop. I feel my breath catch sharply in my throat, the sheer awe imposed by this slowly revolving world rendering any decipherable speech absent.

"Quite a view, isn't it?" The voice startles me for a moment, cutting through the silence, the sound echoing about far louder in contrast to the empty stillness that had permeated the ship nearly completely than they would have given a different circumstance.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure words won't effectively do it justice," I respond after a brief moment of hesitation, searching for some hidden trap beneath the question, distrusting.

"That's one of the benefits of being primarily stationed on Eden Prime," he says, a thin smile gracing his face. "I'm still waiting for the catch."

The silence resumes its fervent hold on the atmosphere after his statement, the moments passing in our separate, silent, solitary contemplation, the commanding presence that looms outside the window seeming to watch our movements within.

I feel as if I have heard the name of the planet somewhere before, the reason for its apparent familiarity just escaping my faculties. I strain to think back to the game I had played so long ago, struggling to remember the details, the names, places, locations, but it all remains painfully elusive. The game I know existed is now beyond reach. Finally given the chance to relax in what seems a momentary peaceful seclusion, my thoughts slowly begin to turn from the game to the rest of the world I had so long existed contented within, happily ignorant of any further levels of existence. With growing horror, I slowly find myself only able to conjure an inky black, past images once so familiar now beyond any form of recognition.

For a moment, the ship rocks nearly imperceptibly, the pull of gravity joined by the almost invisible light emitted by the tractor beam as it freezes the shuttle in its place, the descent now slow and controlled, a modicum of calm and order cutting through the endless chaos.

Our steady approach quickly ceases in the harsh grinding of metal as we are pulled tightly into a docking station. No use in taking up unnecessary space is evidently a common mindset, shuttles and ships packed like sardines into the relatively cramped location, each vehicle having only enough room to open its doors. Corey stands up quickly as our own flight settles neatly into its allotted area, stretching his back after the cramped, albeit short, travel. My own movements mirror his own.

The door slides open, accompanied by the slightest hiss, nearly indecipherable from the surrounding ambience. Warm air drifts lazily inside, imploringly me to sit back, allow the first breeze I have felt since waking up in this strange, evil world to caress my face, drift off into a comfortable sleep.

But my wishes are left un-granted as Corey rushes me hastily out into the docks. The space reserved for patrons, that already not occupied by the hulking metal that presses in from all sides, even overhead. Utterly surrounded by the hulking, artificial beasts, I feel more at peace than I have since waking. The cool air caresses my face, clean, without the choking sterility of the starships. My breathing begins to slow, falling into unconscious ease at even the slight familiarity, relishing the moment, as short-lived as it might prove.

I follow in Corey's brusque footsteps, the harsh echo of the heavy tread all the more noticeable in the quiet that surrounds us. Acknowledging the absence of seemingly any population, I tentatively speak up. "Excuse me," I begin, a hasty 'Sir' added almost immediately afterwards. "May I ask where everyone happens to be on this lovely day?" The note of sarcasm seems to go either unnoticed, or is tactfully ignored.

"Eden Prime never has had one of the busiest space ports. Most of these ships are used by the Alliance. Once a colonist settles here, they generally aren't populating the space port to go on tours of the Milky Way. First off, if you want scenery, there aren't many locations that can give you better than you can here. Secondly, once you pay for the trip to get out here, most people aren't going to have the money for a nice little weekend excursion.

"So, this is a public port, but it's essentially only used for military?"

"You could say that. Although, things in that department aren't exactly overused either, as is hopefully evident," he replies, gesturing around the empty terminal. "Actually, the Alliance base here is generally pretty static, too. We, the elite defenders of this great planet are just put on a rotating cycle that changes about once every 6 months. We were just on our way to switch out the currently stationed unit, but needless to say, they aren't going to get the R&R they were planning on. I'm only here to escort you to a temporary holding cell here before we figure out your official verdict. I think it's fairly safe to say you'll get off without a hitch, even if they don't trust you around ships for a while."

"I can't say I'll be disappointed if that comes to pass."

Once again, silence throws a veil across the world, the only remaining sound the breath of the wind against the machinery, and the distant cries of some alien bird. Left alone to my thoughts once again, I try to force the obscured memories to come to the forefront, try to remember something, anything about my apartment, my school, even my family, but it all remains hopelessly out of reach. A tight knob builds up inside my throat as my struggles remain devastatingly fruitless. Who am I? Even that last night, immediately before I arrived in this place, is slipping away even as I try to desperately to cling on, like water through my fingers. And then, even that is abruptly gone, leaving behind only the knowledge of its prior existence. Every single memory I can still retain is from the last 24 hours.

What the hell is happening? My breathing quickly sharpens in intensity, the air that was moments ago liberating now bears down with palpable weight. The calm silence is an antithesis to the adrenalin that has begun to flow in my veins; the panicked energy incapable of righting the situation merely taunts me with my own helplessness. Who am I? The question returns, haunting in its incomprehensibility. I attempt to seek solace in telling myself the answer is just outside my grasp, on the verge of total recall, but even I, so practiced in the art of convincing myself of my own lies, can't trust the words, that it is more elusive than that, that my past may forever no longer be even a memory.

"Hey! Are you okay?" Corey's voice is impatient, exasperated. "Why aren't you answering?"

I hastily mutter an apology, hint at a distraction of unspecified origin, and let the silence once again engulf the area, the relaxed, lazy still replaced by fragile glass, capable of being shattered at the slightest provocation. We continue our progress forward, and I am suddenly aware of nervous glances cast my way over his shoulder, subtly, Corey's eyes darting away as soon as they catch mine. But the looks are there. No matter how he may portray it to seem, there is no companionship here, forgiveness still not given without irreparable proof of my innocence. Still, based purely on the circumstances of the situation, should I really be able to think anyone would believe any different?

I don't know how long we've been walking; it can't have been for any extended period, the main Alliance base being directly connected with the ports for quick mobilization if needed, as Corey explained it. However, I have no way of judging anything at the moment. Thoughts buzz, waspish, each begging for my complete observance, none earning it in its desired entirety.

The fresh breeze is all too quickly replaced by one cold, almost metallic. The jarring sound of footsteps, voices echoing down tiled, sterile passageways clash jarringly with the sleepy peace found just a few steps behind, irretrievable as the sliding door seals us off.

One of the pairs of footsteps separates itself from the rest, drawing nearer and nearer, the noise now distinguishable from dozens similar. The tread is brisk, measured, the steps sure but not heavy. The figure to which they belong appears around the corner, eyes lighting up, but the rest of her face retaining its natural assuredness.

"Well, well, if it isn't Miss Ashley Williams," the man beside me says, allowing his own face to break into a smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it looks like you're here to give me a welcome back!"

"It's a good thing you know better," she responds snidely, raising her eyebrows in gentle accusation.

"Have you met our esteemed guest?" Corey asks suddenly, sarcastically, turning both of their attention on me.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Ashley's words are cold, menacing, backed by hardened steel. "Although, we've received the transmission from the ship. No one here is all too happy about his arrival." The statement is accentuated by a violent jerk of her thumb in my direction. "Not to mention the fact that we're going to be stuck on this planet for at least a portion of another cycle before the replacements arrive, now."

"There are worse places you could be stuck," Corey paints out matter-of-factly. "Quite honestly, I don't think I would mind taking shore leave here, if I didn't associate it with work. And as far as that goes, it's better than most places. We don't have to constantly worry about full scale attacks, even if it is on the edge of the Terminus systems, considering nobody wants a war with humanity at the moment, after we proved ourselves against the Turian Fleet. Really, the only action we ever see out here is the occasional pirate attack. Personally, not having to worry about constantly getting shipped out to die every other day is a damn good deal."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm not going stir crazy," she replies.

"Out here, in the open air?" Corey questions incredulously. "You'd prefer to be stuck on a starship?"

"At least then I would know I'm going places. But that's just a wish right now. You know about Shanxi."

Corey nods his head regretfully. "Yeah, it's bullshit. But you'll get out of here, end up somewhere important, maybe finally get the conservatives who run so much of this place over the stigma they have with your name."

"Good luck. Nothing happens here that could possibly be misconstrued as anything remotely of interest on more than a local scale."

"Alright, fine!" Corey says, raising his arms in defeat. "I'm only saying to give yourself a little more credit. Unless something's drastically changed since I was here six months ago, most everyone on the base considers you one of the more capable here."

"Which says a lot," she replies sardonically. "We both know the extremes the higher-ups go to sending the cream of the crop out here."

"If you're going to be defeatist, there's nothing I can do to change your mind. If you aren't stubborn, I don't know what is. And I need to escort him to the holding cells now, anyway," Giles responds, indicating myself, the slightest note of frustration discernable in the very nearly imperceptible raise of his voice, the almost unnoticeable crack in speech.

I can feel the weight of a thousand stares as we progress in tense silence, some peering curiously, others casting daggers across my body. My eyes fall resolutely upon the brilliantly white, tile floor beneath my feet, yet paying it no attention, focused on the hateful glances I know all too well have not been diverted.

When we finally stop, any sense of my internal direction has fallen by the wayside somewhere amidst the plethora of corridors. Before us stretches a wall of vacated glass cells, identical to the ones aboard the Johannesburg.

"I thought you said somewhere along the way that I'd probably be getting off scot free," I say, the words sounding more bitter than I am accustomed to, but no less than I intended.

"I didn't say you were already cleared," Corey snaps back. "If you're in a court trial, they still hold you in prison before anyone comes to a verdict. Better to keep an innocent in prison for a few weeks than have a serial killer walking freely down the street before an impending court date."

"Am I really going to be stuck in there for weeks?" The bitterness has suddenly been replaced by incredulity.

"Of course not, that was just an example. I think it's reasonably assured that any form of jurisdiction is going to be timelier on a relatively small colony than back in all those saturated courts of Earth. Although, if what I've been told of your story is true, you'd already know enough on that." I can only nod absently in response, already beginning to anticipate what is to come. As Corey ushers me inside the waiting the room, I am struck by a final, closing thought.

"Is this just going to be like any trial?"

"Again, of course not. The trial was just an analogy for the length in the holding cell. We don't exactly waste resources by keeping a justice of the peace on a military base. Something tells me that would be distinctly less than efficient, and out here, efficiency is one of the many names of the game. In the end, it's really just going to be some people analyzing some data, and looking at some evidence before we decide whether or not we let you go or stick you in a maximum security prison."

"Well, at least a maximum security prison is certainly preferable to a bullet in my brain."

"I think it's fairly evident that things would be just a tad less hostile, if not sunny, than on a ship that just saw the death of a fair share of crew," he responds. "But I'm not here to discuss particulars with you; I have places to be."

The sound of Corey's exiting footsteps is abruptly extinguished by the cell door sliding into place, the motion containing a certain finality.

* * *

Several hours pass by, in both a moment and a lifetime. Bouts of anxiety intertwine with periods of crushing boredom, the small room devoid of even a clock to check the resolute march of time. Everything has spiraled out of control so quickly. I laugh spitefully at the thought almost as soon as it crosses my mind, the notion that I had even a semblance of control at any point in these fucked up events utterly ridiculous. I lay my head back against the pillow, head sinking into the material, hoping I can somehow get a few winks to bore through the tedium. Almost as soon as I allow my eyelids to drift close, I hear the sound of the door sliding open. Of all the time I could have been interrupted, now is the chosen moment? Just as I'm about to find some form of tranquility, however temporary and superficial?

I lay still, refusing to change position unless explicitly ordered.

"Mr. ********, please don't keep us waiting."

So much for that brilliant plan.

"Just when things were beginning to lose excitement!" I say brightly. "Please check your bags at the door. Thanks for stopping by, and stay classy, San Diego."

"Mr. ********, kindly cut the bullshit. We have things we need to get done, and I'd rather get them over with, if it's all the same to you."

"Ah, coupling the formality of a respectful title to make a vulgar juxtaposition seem all the more jarring in the same sentence. I applaud your work, good sir!" I wait, but receive no further response to the words. The man remains, however, waiting expectantly for my physical acquiescence. Finally, I oblige.

As the new man traces back the steps travelled several hours previously by Giles and I, finally diverging in a new direction, I now ignore the looks cast in my direction, memorizing every facet of my surroundings, filing the information safely away. A hallway that branches off in three separate directions, each ending in a gaping mouth, from which people trickle forth, the crowds too empty to be designated a stream. Turn right into one of the channels, the arched roof towering aloofly far overhead. Lighting permeates every square inch, casting all faces under an inescapable ocean of luminesce, all appearing pale and flat, sickly. The slightest sound rockets away down the corridor, slowly fading echoes quickly replaced by ones nearer. The walls are devoid of ornamentation, the ceiling just as absent, the only objects present a series of sprinklers. When would a place like this ever see a fire? Everything seems to run as a well-oiled machine. Unless the oil itself caught.

The doors that line the walls are placed at perfectly even intervals, the design seeming more suitable to an ancient office building than a fully operational military base responsible for the protection of an independent human colony. Most of the doors are closed, blinds drawn across the small glass windows. The ones that remain uncovered seem to house an excess of assorted machinery, gears, and wires, and metal pipes.

We stop outside one of the hidden doorways. The man gives a single, sharp rap, the entry opening promptly. Inside, a middle-aged man in a business suit stands waiting. He seems trapped in a state of perpetual anxiety, eyes never focused on a single location for long. He shifts his stance from one foot to the other, brushing the greasy hair that falls across his right eye aside, the gesture seeming unconscious. Everything about him is thin, from his legs, to his chest, to the gangly arms that extend awkwardly from his shoulders. However, when he speaks, his voice his calm, assured.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'd comment on the weather, but I haven't had a chance to step outside as of yet." He nods to the man beside me. "Thank you, Mr. Brooks, you may return to your normal duties." The tall man pauses briefly before adding, "I hope your time as an escort hasn't affected you on too personal a level." Brooks's mouth purses slightly around the edges, but he remains silent as he turns and exits. The man's attention turns to me, locking the door as he does so. "I apologize for that innuendo. Mr. Brooks detests such breaches of protocol, and I don't imagine he would have departed quite so readily in any other event. As unfortunate as judging a person on sight may be, I don't think it's come as any great surprise that you're held in less than the highest esteem. I fear I wouldn't be able to conduct my work in peace when someone with that attitude is keeping watch over the entire proceedings. That, and I find it frightfully abhorrent to have someone peering down my neck in any situation. Quite uncomfortable." He looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for a response.

"I…I wouldn't know; I don't think I'd call myself the most work-centric individual imaginable, in all honesty." I stumble at first, taken aback by the man's straightforward, even polite manner. Nice to know there's at least one person who doesn't come across as an utter douche. Not that I can exactly blame them. After a moment, I mentally add Corey to the list, as well. Looking back up the man, a question suddenly strikes me. "The Alliance lets you grow your hair like that? Almost everybody I've seen here has buzz cuts, and you look almost like Steven Wilson. I intend that as a compliment, mind you," I quickly add.

"Well, I can't say it hasn't ruffled a few feathers, so to speak, but the colonels who run the majority of the show technically don't have true jurisdiction over myself, as I'm actually not a working member of the military. They like to pretend they have control over me just as most of their other soldiers, and for the most part I let them have their way. If there's one thing I've come to appreciate about these military types, it's that they despise anyone who operates in essentially the same field without having to submit to their jurisdiction who doesn't happen to immediately rank as their superior officer. So they like to play as if they are my CO, and I generally make concessions to keep the peace, but sometimes I just have to exercise my blessed separation."

"What are you doing here then, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm technically working for the Alliance, but am separate from it." My confused look prompts further response. "But I can explain further as we work. Enough time has been spent in idle conversation that can be achieved just as efficiently in the process of progress."

He steps around the small desk that takes up a full corner of the cramped room, mumbling something about it being marketed as "cozy," as he slams his elbow roughly into the wall. The man squeezes through the small crack between the desk and the room's end to lead me down a small hallway that plays home to several more doors, each one standing ajar.

He leads me to the second, halfway down the hall, the interior home to several small chairs and medical apparatuses, as well as a multitude of cabinets, stacked nearly floor to ceiling against the thin wall. "They really need to give a person room to spread out," he gripes good-naturedly. "If a man's home truly is his castle, I'm terribly glad I reign elsewhere. And I truly hold reign, as no woman has had the decency to come along and usurp the title of liege. But my general ineptitude for typical social interaction is not the point of your appearance," he continues brightly. Standing on his toes, he rifles through one of the cabinets before proudly withdrawing a small needle, the attached vial empty.

"I'm first required to provide you with a blood test, to verify the results received on the Johannesburg, to clarify that you, in fact, do not exist. If that is the case, than I can sincerely promise that this won't hurt in the slightest. If, however, you are not an apparition or vivid hallucination, than this simply won't hurt any worse than you would initially expect it to."

As the needle enters my arm, I stare transfixed as the small, hollow tube rapidly fills with the thick red fluid, the sight casting me into a trance. Suddenly, I remember the unfinished conversation. "So, how is it that you both simultaneously work and do not work for the Alliance?"

"Ah yes," he answers, drawing the needle from my arm and inspecting its contents. "Follow me. I have to analyze this. I'll explain in the lab."

The lab lies within the furthest door, following the pattern of the two rooms previous in its size, a bank of computer screens and monitors aligned neatly against the back wall, the organization a stark contrast to the haphazard display of materials from whence we just left. He slides the canister of my blood into a small terminal; readings immediately begin blurring across the screens at an incomprehensible speed.

"So, while we wait to see the nature of your existence, the least I can do is inform you of mine. In actuality, I'm a simple Earth man; nothing more, nothing less. I've spent the duration of my life there, save for these last couple of years. Up until then I worked in a medical clinic in Toronto. Then one day, a riot broke out in the streets; I'm not sure of the exact cause, I never had the chance to stay and see. I just know it escalated inordinately quickly, and some of the military was called in to put it to rest. I daresay the fighting was a tad more brutal than they had anticipated, and pretty soon, all the medical practices nearby were crowded with patients, mine being no exception. The one in which I worked was actually situated relatively close to where one of the drops of Alliance men had been, and naturally, the majority of visitors were of that nature. As it was, an unusually high percentage of those admitted returned out again in fine form. I still maintain that they had the most support in the immediate drop zones, and therefore the injuries I had to treat were much less severe than those faced by others, but statistics are statistics. I was offered a position of working a clinic on an Alliance base here on Eden Prime, a location provided by them but still technically as a private enterprise, for an increase in wages, and a fully paid flight. And being no less susceptible to the promise of money than any other man, naturally I accepted, and here I now remain. I simply follow higher commands from those specified in the contracts, while still retaining a small amount of independence from their system, as well."

He is cut off as a beeping resonates from the wall, his curious glance met by a blank screen, with a single message displayed across it. _No match identified._

"Well, it would seem the reports are true. There are indeed phantoms living among us." His voice is perplexed, curious. "How is it that you've managed to escape all possible detection and records for the entire extent of your life thus far? I can honestly say I've never before been confronted with this situation. It's quite fascinating really. However, based on the fact is that I'm supposed to obtain information regarding your true identity, and as fascinating as it would be to try to figure out the solution for myself, I would genuinely appreciate any help in accomplishing the task."

"I don't know anything more than you do," I reply, almost apologetically. I sincerely want to help this lone man from Toronto, but good will does nothing to make the answers any more forthcoming. I hesitate before finishing the statement. What should happen if he turns out less of, if not an ally, than at least somewhat understanding, than he appears? Still, he is separated from the Alliance, so the attack most likely wouldn't affect him as directly; keep him from being immediately out for my blood. But if it's all a ruse to plant those thoughts in the first place? Oh God, I can't keep second-guessing myself. I breathe in deeply, crossing my fingers that he takes my words at face value, at least. "I have no idea how I wound up here, and," I pause one last time before plowing through the words without a chance to think, stop again. "And I don't remember anything from before that. I know I did at first, but it's like my memories of everything from more than about a day ago are disappearing. I can still recall certain things, media, news events, movies and music, but nothing that relates specifically to my own experiences. I remember September 11, but I don't know where I was, or what I was doing at the time, my reaction, anything. I can't even picture my family." Hearing the words spoken adds a distinct finality, as if now that somebody else has heard, there's no returning to the way things were. Before, it could have been merely temporary trauma, excusable as just a trick of the mind, a temporary slip. Hearing the words eliminates any possible attempt at further denial. I am alone, my world is gone, replaced by this hell of explosions and hostile stares. For the first time, I finally begin to doubt any hope of return, any chance to recall those obscured faces that represent the people I had once known, now lost and beyond reach.

"Well, this would appear to be quite the dilemma," he says after a moment's pause, a trait I can immediately recognize as surprise. "I'm going to choose to take it as you say for the moment, the 'innocent until proven guilty' scenario, but speaking truthfully, I don't think you'll find the same unconditional acceptance of the fact that you'll find in here. So I would assume this means you and I are going to be seeing quite a lot of each other to get these tests done."

Suddenly, he cocks his head to the side, listening to an absent sound. At least, absent momentarily, the noise soon making itself known to me, as well; a faint tapping so distant it's hard to tell whether it even exists.

"I'm sorry," the man answers resignedly. "I loathe being interrupted in the middle of my work, but it sounds like it's coming from up front. I shall return momentarily."

Just as his foot touches the hallway outside the door of the minuscule laboratory, the alarms explode. A piercing shriek erupts through the still, the man looking around in a sudden panic, before seeming to remember my existence. He gestures wildly at me to come forward, his mouth moving rapidly. The words fail to reach me.

Through the harsh wails, a mantra is continually repeated by a robotic voice. "Dr. Mikonen, please evacuate."

We stumble blindly out into the hall, where a sudden influx of Alliance soldiers has flooded the hallway expectantly, awaiting orders. Before they receive them, the room explodes in a barrage of fire and breaking glass.

* * *

**A/N: Credit song: Nobody's Here - Devin Townsend**

http :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= 1NMjGEQo5iI


	10. A Pair of Eyes

Chapter 10

A Pair of Eyes

The blast lasts only a moment. The world seems caught in a still frame, not a breath stirring the shocked calm. Suddenly, a single cry of pain drifts across the landscape, and the screams begin, anguished cries of terror that resonate through the clouds of settling dust.

The scent of smoke reaches me, my throat tightening against the thick gray clouds that obscure the building. I stumble blindly forward, feeling something crunch beneath my foot. With a glance down, I see a hand, its fingers crushed, twisted. No body is attached, the severed appendage slowly staining the once pristine tiles, the blood mingling with the thick mat of dust and debris knocked loose in the explosion.

A lone gunshot erupts through the cries of pain, and just before its echoes ring their final knell, is mimicked by hundreds more. Panic grips my chest, my heart beginning to race, keeping in step with the sudden pounding of my boots against the floor. The world flies past, but I pay no attention. All that remains is a wild, primal instinct. Out of nowhere, a hand reaches out, grabs at my leg. The movement sends me hurtling painfully to the floor. My foot lashes out instinctually, catching someone square across the face with a sickening crack. The assault is answered by a cry of shock, of pain, a brief look showing a man stretched along the ground, blood streaming freely from his newly crumpled nose. The man barely takes notice, dragging himself agonizingly towards me, jagged stumps where his legs should be. I turn away, unable to watch as he begins to plead, begging for a single bullet to his head. A gun lies tauntingly a mere few feet away, the man's gaze lingering upon it, longing.

I feel my feet the traverse the short distance, feel my fingers tighten around the barrel, lift it from its resting place, the handle wrenching free from the stiff hand still grasping firmly to the weapon. As the sweat of its former owner mingles with my own, I feel the shock slowly give way to a single, lucid thought. Can I really kill a man, even in mercy?

My hand shakes violently as I lower the weapon, leveling the barrel towards his forehead. His eyes clear at the gesture, projecting a silent thank you. The man's pain seems to ebb slowly away, and he smiles at the sound of the gunshot. A gunshot issued from somewhere nearby. The man's brief tranquil smile as he awaited his descent to death is replaced by confusion, and then urgency. No new wound is present on his prone form.

In a raspy voice, he chokes out a single syllable. "Please."

"I can't," I reply, my voice falling. "I can't."

"Leave the gun here." The hopeless pleading of his voice is suddenly replaced by a cold authority, imposing even as he lies in a growing pool of his own blood. As he extends his palm expectantly, a shape appears behind him in the fog. Immediately I know something is wrong with the body, its head far too thin, too elongated to be human. The point of the gun slowly lowers, my hand drifting towards my side, body turning away from the approaching figure. Suddenly, a beam of light flashes across my vision, blinding. As my sight clears, a geth platform stands silhouetted by the smoke, its approximation of a head tilting gently to the side.

I instantly drop to the floor, as a gun discharges where I had been standing mere seconds prior. My own weapon falls from my grasp, sliding slickly along the ground, coming to a stop several feet away. The bullets stop coming for a mere moment as a rapid beeping emanates from the platform's weapon. Pushing my body up to mimic the position of a sprinter about to burst from the gate, I launch myself forward towards the discarded gun, hand sweeping along the ground and closing around the handle as the settling dust is once again stirred into a miniature twister with the sudden motion. A column of stone stands crumbled close by, the base still intact even as the top of the pillar lies smashed beside it. I lean back on my heels, sliding behind the structure, my back slamming roughly against the rough ridges adorned in the marble.

Jesus Christ! What the hell are the geth doing here? I think back, once again searching to remember the details that don't exist. The image of the machines is now clear in my mind, recalled from the all encapsulating black upon their appearance, but the finer points of their existence have no picture, nothing to provide instant recall.

A scream pierces through my reverie. "Finish me! Stop being a fucking coward and do it!"

I hear the words; hear the mantra repeated as I continue to stare in terror at the wall, too horrified at what might be around the pillar to look. His screams grow louder, more frantic. And more distant.

I finally collect my strength, and peer around the rounded column, and immediately wish I hadn't. The geth has the struggling man by the collar of his shirt, the man still screaming furiously even as his face turns a ghastly pale, sweat dripping down his brow. The stumps where his legs once attached leave smooth streaks on the floor, the man having no energy to even give a struggle. His plea has turned to only two words, repeated incessantly. Kill me.

His figure is perfectly in line with the barrel, my gun now raised, centered on his heart. But my finger hesitates against the trigger. The instant this bullet fires, every geth in the vicinity, if there are more than this one, will converge on me, because I'm fighting back, a threat. This is the first time I've ever laid my hand on a gun, and I still am no closer to understanding how to utilize the biotic powers that have somehow appeared. The smoke chokes me, suffocating. I can hear my heart slamming against my ribs, trying to force its way through my chest.

My hand drops, the gun point once again returning to face the floor. I take one last furtive glance at the man, and find his own eyes staring straight ahead, meeting mine. He has stopped speaking, his face already that of a ghost, but his eyes remain alive, clearly displaying the contempt that the rest of his face refuses to show. Even as he disappears from view, dragged helplessly by the machine, his image is burned across my vision. The eyes follow, spiteful and judging, my body haunted by his specter. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

The gun rests in my lap, coated in the blood of its previous owner, lying only a few feet away, his chest crushed under a chunk of rubble from the collapsed ceiling overhead. Through the empty space blue sky shines, but the light fails to penetrate the thick haze that covers the ground. Explosions punctuate the smoke, the barrels of guns temporarily illuminated, only to disappear just as quickly. The sound of gunshots rips apart the air, every passing minute serving to build the screams of pain, fear, desperation.

But one voice slowly begins to differentiate itself from the others, frantic but without the raw edge that accompanies the abundant cries of agony. A second later, I notice the voice calling my name. My lack of awareness is alarming, and I seem to just notice my nearly catatonic stare. Jesus, if I get out of here without a crippling case of PTSD, I'll consider it a victory. If I get out of here at all, and as it currently stands, those chances seem reasonably low. For the first time since my arrival, I force all else from my mind, the screams, the smoke, the eyes of the man, still following, and take stock of the situation. With a newfound clarity, I see the lanky form of Dr. Mikonen but a few feet away, charred soot smeared across his face, glasses askew to match his ruffled, dirt-encrusted suit. Other than the panic that shows through his obvious attempts to suppress it, he appears unharmed.

He seems to notice as I finally hold his attention, adding on briskly, between heaving breaths, "We…have to get…out of here."

Even the smoke seems to have receded as I look around once more, vision still horribly obscured, but my own course marvelously clear. Screw destiny, I'm done sitting helpless in a panic waiting for everything to work itself out. I've become attached to my sanity over the last 20 years, and I'm not abandoning it now. Time to take damn control of this situation. I glance down at the pistol in my hands, suddenly wishing I could cock it for emphasis.

My thoughts are suddenly focused, organized, almost as if a wall has separated the panic from my consciousness. I still recognize the thoughts, screaming to cower, hide, and wait for the oppressor to disappear, for the screams to die away, but something now keeps it separate.

Mikonen taps his foot anxiously, thin beads of sweat trickling down his brow. He doesn't bother to mop them away. His eyes dart about the room, trying desperately to see, understand the horrors that remain just elusively out of sight.

"Do you have any idea where out of here might be?" I hiss quietly, crouching low as I run to where he stands, trying to remain hidden to any unwanted eyes.

"I do remember the locations of every exit, considering the fact that I have spent the entirety of my last two years stationed in this medical wing. I've had a fair amount of time to acquaint myself with the environment," he says, speaking as softly as he can, words accented by the distant gunfire, leaving me straining to hear them. "But that does nothing for us now. Even if we did make it through to an exit, it's impossible to know which are being guarded by the attackers."

"They're geth," I reply simply, spitting out the term in anger, image of the platform dragging the man away still planted firmly in my mind, his final glance still trained on my actions, accusing.

"What?" The question comes suddenly, shocked and disbelieving. "How is that possible? Everyone knows about them of course, but they never go beyond the veil. Are you sure you didn't miss something?" he asks a final time, desperately grasping at straws.

"As you said, we all know what geth look like. It's hard to confuse them, what with the distinctive body types and all," I shoot back, impatient at the sudden delay. My resolve is slowly beginning to dissolve once more, fingers tightening around the comfortable base of the gun, sturdy, reliable. The only sure thing in this world. "But as you said before, we do need to get out of here, and standing still isn't bringing that moment any closer."

Mikonen nods his head slowly in agreement. "Yes, you are correct. I will join you momentarily," he adds, eyes sweeping across the floor, seeking for something. They widen in a brief display of excitement as they light upon the object of his search. Bending down smoothly, he plucks another discarded pistol from its resting place, its owner hidden from sight. The worry leaves his own face, and the slightest smile creeps across it. "They may be small, and utterly hopeless in an extended fight, but holding one is such a comfort in these times of duress," he comments, examining the metallic surface beneath the flickering lights, nodding almost imperceptibly in approval as he hefts the handle, testing the balance.

He creeps silently, his footing suddenly sure, ability bolstered by adrenalin, mirroring the very same I can feel begin to creep back into my system. There's something comforting in having an objective, however hopeless it might be. No more hiding behind anyone else. I've seen enough death on my account, but that doesn't seem likely to change. Time to make sure those numbers are felt by the enemy.

The enemy, finally clearly set forth. A picture begins to form in my mind for the first time, accompanied by a desire to cause pain to these creatures who have given so much, yet sense none for themselves. How do you hurt that which does not live, cannot feel?

We press our backs against the wall, creeping silently past the world, hidden behind its thick curtain of debris that chokes the air itself. The only map of our progress is the ceiling overhead, the sunlight that still streams at frequent intervals through the gaps that populate it, still fighting its futile battle with the thick haze that settles over everyone, everything. Is this the last thing the dead here see, as they lay on their backs, adding their cries to the choir, their own star, just out of reach, leaving them alone to the final cold embrace? How many more will meet the same fate? Will I be among those before this over, joining the fearful symphony that even now haunts my ears, become someone else's pair of eyes, to follow them, haunt them for thier own abandonment?

No. This is the time to put this weapon clutched in my fingertips to use. To discover my true potential. I may not know if there's some greater purpose I'm here for, but it's time to give myself a damn good reason to stay, as my situation doesn't seem nearly as easy as simply blinking and re-awakening back home.

The sound of a gunshot going off tears me from the reverie, spinning on my heel, foot almost slipping from the surface, covered as it is by the slick dust. A geth platform stands staring directly at me, gun held towards my back. After a moment of seeming indecision, its metallic legs give way to gravity, the machine toppling unceremoniously to the floor. As it lays in a crumpled heap, I notice the pounding of my heart, hammering against my ribs, seeming to climb towards my throat. My resolve once again flees my body. No matter how determined I may get, there can always be something behind, something to catch me unaware, no chance to fight against the death that waits in the shadows.

Mortality, the essence of existence, the most fragile, the most horrifying. Death is a distant concept, one that only occurs to people far away, the ones heard about in the news. Is it even possible to experience death? I hope to never find the answer, one that came so near to providing itself. I have not been faced with death, that foreign concept. I have glimpsed mortality.

Mikonen continues to stare at the geth even as my own knees give out, and I sink to the floor in pantomime of the destroyed platform. He lowers his own pistol, a hard edge to his eyes he has never before displayed.

"I'm really glad one of us isn't a head case," I mutter softly, struggling to push myself to my feet, struggling to find purchase on the ground as my legs continue to tremble violently. I plant my hand firmly against the wall, pushing upwards with all my energy, trying to stay stable. The muscles in my back contract tightly at the sudden strain, and I grimace, before pushing off, rocking slightly before regaining my footing. A prickling sensation has erupted across my body to accompany the movement, and the briefest glance downward shows a blue aura slowly dissipating, abandoning the shimmering shell it had formed around my body.

The broken creature at my feet escapes my mind as stare in wonder at my forearm, as if I could bring it back from sheer force of will, lacking as that has been recently. I raise my arm experimentally, forcing my muscles to once again tighten. The sensation returns, the glow creeping along my arm, dancing above my fingertips. I stretch my fingers experimentally, watching in fascination as creeping tendrils of light weave their way between the digits. I don't remember what it was I saw in the midst of the game, the visual images still enshrouded and unclear, but no matter what may have been developed, it can't have held a candle to this moment.

I barely register Mikonen coming to join my side, starring in wonder at the swirling luminescence. "How is it possible to accomplish this level of biotic ability?" I turn my head to him curiously, cocking an eyebrow in question, only paying him a fraction of my attention. The brief gesture is met by a deeper explanation. "Biotic energy shouldn't be sustainable at this level. Abilities in humans are rare, not unheard, of course, but the amplifiers don't allow biotic ability to remain active for this long. The element zero pockets found in muscle tissue simply don't preserve enough energy for a human's stamina to support the energy for this duration of time. And yet, unless my eyes deceive me…" he trails off, shaking his head in confusion.

"Shouldn't you have tested me for this back in your lab?" I ask, a sense of power flooding my very being. The power of destruction, contained in these lazily intertwining lights, it feels good, to finally access it. No more secrets hidden from me by my own body.

"Nobody had any notion of the extent of your apparent ability. The report included your biotic display, so there wasn't any initial need to verify the already proven statement. But this, this warrants further consideration."

"So I can maintain this longer than normal," I begin, before being cut off once more.

"It goes far beyond normality, Thomas. This is beyond what was thought even in the realm of possibility."

"Well, I'm glad you're happy," I shoot back, suddenly disgusted at the man's evident enjoyment of the situation, even as I hear the death washing across the room in waves of echoing sound, the voices continuing to be cut abruptly off. "And I do hate having to break this to you, but this isn't the time for me to be your lab rat. I've finally figured the way to use this, and I sure as hell am planning on it."

The thought strikes that I should feel guilty over my words, my anger at the man who just moments ago preserved my ability to speak them. But the remorse never comes.

It takes a moment to notice, but the feeling begins to build, creeping slowly along my spine. The muscles in my back begin to tense, an inexplicable pain working its way to the very center of my being, building in intensity until it bursts like a supernova, and I find myself once again collapsing. I don't even feel the contact as my body slams roughly into the tiles, the burning taking over every nerve. Every color in the visible spectrum assaults my vision, one immediately following on the heels of another.

Time loses meaning; I know not when my vision returns, when I can once again feel the world outside the burst of crippling heat and pain. My back slides across a rough crack in the floor, the jagged edge shredding the material of my shirt, digging excruciatingly into my back. Involuntarily, I give a yelp of pain, and finally see the source of my movement.

Mikonen drops my legs, and I can only watch as they smash against the ground. The man himself quickly kneels by my head. "Are you doing alright?"

"Yeah, peachy," I choke out. "Here, help me up," I grunt, raising a hand painfully in the air. A surprisingly strong grip encloses it, an upward thrust sending me stumbling to my feet, joints stiff and screaming in protest. The forward momentum sends me stumbling, trying desperately to keep my shaky footing. I feel the hand grab hold of my shoulder, steadying my drunken stagger. As the ground ceases to shake beneath me, a thought crosses my mind. "Where'd you learn to shoot a gun?"

"I am afraid I am unaware what you are referring to."

"Come on, Doc, you dropped that geth in one shot back there."

"Are we not all allowed to have a fluke once in a while?"

"Something tells me there's more to it than that," I reply, curiosity genuinely piqued.

"I will make an arrangement with you. If we actually come across a true battle, and I survive it without suffering any serious injury, you can have my autobiography."

"I thought you already told me about Toronto."

"Well, I've hardly lived my entire live shut up in that medical clinic, now have I?" Damn, this is growing more intriguing by the second. The flood of nausea that so recently threatened to consume me begins to recede.

"And here I was thinking you're life was an open book."

"In all fairness, I have no knowledge of your own, either," Mikonen says, tossing the comment away as a mere aside, but there is a brief flash of curiosity behind the question, that flares and is gone.

"Then I believe that's something we have in common."

As the conversation draws to a close, the screams flare up once more, and I feel the dead man's gaze once again fix itself upon me, his specter not far behind, footsteps drawing closer, ever closer. No, that can't be possible, he lost them, I saw the severed the limbs. But still the footsteps draw closer, several pairs, reverberating heavily across the arching walls.

I spin around once more, coming face to face not with another geth, but a group of the Alliance military. Ashley Williams stands in front, gun trained directly at my chest.

"So, is this another coincidence?" she asks coldly, voice dripping with unrestrained venom.

"Yes indeed," I shoot back angrily. "There seems to be a lot of them going around recently." Suddenly, Corey steps out from behind her, gently pushing the nose of her gun into the ground. Speaking of coincidences…

"That was Cerberus," Corey says firmly. "I somehow doubt they have any connection to the geth we've seen here. I know we don't know anything as of now, but that outcome does seem a tad far-fetched."

"Look out!" The shout resonates from somewhere towards the back of the company of new arrivals. An ominous clicking builds in intensity behind me, as Ash raises her gun once more, the barrel now pointed past my head.

A burning erupts across my arm as a bullet grazes the skin, accompanied by yet another blinding flash of pain. Oh God, how many of these are considered too much for one day?

I duck to avoid the gunfire that explodes over my head, feeling frantically for the pistol at my side. The pistol that lies over 20 feet away, dropped in my earlier fall. Shit, why can nothing ever be easy?

I turn to face the geth, still lying on my back. Their attention is drawn above, every bullet from their guns answered in kind, the sound viciously tearing away at my ears as bullets cascade in shrieks against the metal walls. This is the time to take charge. This is the time to make these fuckers pay.

Anger clouds the pain as I tense my back, unable to suppress my grin as the blue energy begins to seep through the skin. Now to figure out how to use this.

I experimentally thrust my arm forward, but the energy remains locked above my fingers, wrapping itself around my palm. Slowly, I tense all the muscles in my arm watching as the glow slowly moves forward, perfectly synchronized the motion. I draw it back in, then quickly clench it once more. The biotics explode outward, crashing against the nearest platform, picking the machine up and smashing it to pieces against the far wall. The smile remains firmly plastered to my face. I could get used to this.

But it ends as abruptly as it started, the other two geth torn apart quickly by the barrage of gunfire. I push off the ground, the pressure reminding me of the injury to my arm, and I grimace, the gash ugly red, weeping crimson tears.

Corey steps forward from where he stands, trying to hide the perplexed look that remains across his visage despite his best efforts. "That was," he pauses, searching for an appropriate word. "Unexpected."

"Even more so than what it would seem," Mikonen speaks up, lowering his gun, breathing heavily from the firefight. "His ability seems to surpass anything I ever expected to see. Perhaps not necessarily in strength, but in duration. If you were looking while Thomas there began to use them," he begins, before being interrupted by a raised hand from Williams.

"Thank you, Dr. Mikonen, for your expert analysis, but can't this wait until after the fighting's over?"

Mikonen lowers his head apologetically. Respectful son of a bitch, I'll give him that.

"And what, pray tell, will I be doing in the meantime?" I speak up, new found power to my voice."

"You stay here with a guard, and hope to hell those biotics of yours still come in handy if more of these geth arrive," Ash answers angrily.

"I mean no disrespect, but I think we might be better off taking him with us," Corey answers. "He clearly has potential. I know you're the quickest to trust anyone, particularly someone you've heard was involved in the situation on the Johannesburg," Corey says preemptively, seeing the words of disagreement already forming on Williams' lips. "But you weren't there. He did save my life when I was on board from someone trying to catch Hathorne and myself unawares. Not to mention, he obviously hasn't made any acts of aggression towards the doctor. Ah, let me finish," he says, growing somewhat impatient at Ashley's imminent interjection. "And even in the unlikely event he should still turn on us, don't you think our squad here will be more equipped to deal with the situation than a solitary guard?"

She pauses to contemplate his words, shaking her head angrily. "Fine," she spits out. "If you make a single unwarranted move, I'll be the one to shoot you," she says, turning her attention to me.

"Fair enough," I say, acknowledging my understanding. I'm here for these goddamn machines. I feel the eyes of the man continue their silent observation. I may have been to weak to help you, but that fear is gone. I may not be able to kill a man, but these things, they don't receive the same benefit.

* * *

**A/N: That chapter was incredibly difficult to write. I've been coping with writer's block recently. Thanks for reading, and please review! Doesn't that little button just taunt you?**

**Credits song: Blut Im Auge - Equilibirum**

http :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= Yom8nNqmxvQ

**It just strikes me as a very good song to prepare for the upcoming battle, truly utilizing an epic sound.  
**


	11. Onslaught

**A/N: I'm not dead! In between this and the last publication, I had several occurrences that rendered me incapable of providing an update, and I apologize once again. However, I'm back now, and with the release of Mass Effect 3, and the eventual disappointment associated, I've been struck with a level of inspiration I haven't felt since I first began to write on here almost two years ago. I'm not going to jinx myself again, but I do plan on having chapters come out at a much quicker pace. (Granted, ten months shouldn't be a difficult benchmark to improve my time on). I'll just keep my fingers crossed that I don't sever my arm in some freak bicycling accident before then. Thank you for patience, and I hope you enjoy, at long last, the next True Identity installment.**

Chapter 11

Onslaught

The setting sun casts its final rays across the landscape, projecting elongated shadows of everything within its sight. The ship hovers just before it, eclipsing the star, keeping its last vestiges of warmth from the dying whose bodies lie like tattered rags across the landscape. Its tentacles twist ominously back and forth, its design like nothing I've ever seen before. Like no one ever has, judging by the looks of horror on the faces of all who surround me, expressions surely mirroring my own.

"What the Hell is that?" asks a lone voice, unleashing a torrent of confused questions, crashing around me from every angle. My own voice fails to join the chorus, jaw hanging open at the imposing sight. Something about the ship is wrong; it's movements too sudden, too erratic.

I turn my thoughts back to the inky black of memory, trying to recall anything from the ether, as I had done with the geth, their image clearly now cemented in my head. But nothing jumps forth, the starship even more terrifying in its continued anonymity.

"There's no way we can take this bastard down," Williams calls from the front of our merry band, shutting down the fearful murmurs with the clear authority in her voice. There is the slightest edge to her own speech, a hint that betrays her cool front. "We need to keep moving forward, focus on eliminating the geth resistance."

Once more, I find my head swiveling to survey the crumpled bodies behind us in the crumbling hall, pieces of synthetic machine mingling with the flesh, blood, and bone. The geth bodies still crackle with their approximation of life, so newly cut down by our sudden attack, our push forward to the exit of the crumbling ruin that stood grand and imposing only minutes before.

I look back to the front of the small company; see the nervous glances of the soldiers scanning the empty field ahead for signs of hostility. Nothing makes itself immediately apparent, but a sense hangs on the air, as if the world is merely tensing itself for an inevitable eruption.

The strange ship still hangs on the stifling air. Backlit by the star, it is ringed by a halo, glorious and terrifying in its apparent transcendence, its grand mystery.

I look to find Ashley standing separate from the group, holding a conversation seemingly with herself, until she turns, and I reveals the previously hidden hand held up to an earpiece nearly indistinguishable from her own skin. Lips move, but the voice that issues forth is lost amongst the chaotic din that dominates the landscape. The sound clashes noticeably with the dead air, the cacophony at odds with the leaves of trees that remain perfectly motionless against the rapidly approaching dusk. The screams are still present, imprinted upon our ears by our submersion in that hall of death and pain. But they are muffled, concrete walls separating us from them, the agony now simply adding a subtle ambience to the roar of engines overhead, and the omnipresent gunfire.

The latter seems to come from everywhere, but we can see nothing, only the geth ships that hang like ornaments upon the clouds, the unfathomable behemoth quietly observing from their center. Watching. A word not often associated with a ship, a structure of simple metal. And yet, watching seems to be the only word to describe the sensation that creeps down my spine, sets the hairs on my arm on end. It is the feeling of being observed carefully, methodically, by eyes that, no matter where you turn, do not grant the simple comfort of allowing you to meet their gaze. Judging by the uncomfortable shifting in the small group around me, others share these same thoughts.

The last idea is a comfort, albeit a small one amidst this destruction. In that old story, Adam managed to survive, create humanity, because there was another beside him. Maybe I will survive, because even as Hell invades Eden, I am not alone. For a moment, the significance of my thought escapes me, before it strikes me suddenly, realization widening my eyes for me.

The all-encompassing nothingness that is my past has let this memory slip through, a crack in the hard shell. The story of Eden.

All of a sudden, I can feel a sense of elation, excitement choking off my words. Even with most of myself still locked away, the very fact that memories still remain sends my heart racing. I can finally be a whole person again, even as unseen bullets tear through the air, hope is newly reborn. And as the gunshots once again force their presence upon my ears, I tightly grip the one small pistol I've been allowed to carry. My true self is trapped away somewhere, and I'll be damned if I don't see my own story unfold.

My reverie is interrupted by Williams, standing assuredly before the group, hand removed from her earpiece. "This wasn't just a sudden attack," she begins, looking slowly about the group. "I think most of us had that figured out from the beginning, but reports from across the colony have confirmed it. There were coordinated strikes across the colony, from our main base just now, the town center, the research base, the hospital," she lists, trailing off, eyes lowered to the ground. "This was a clearly pre-meditated assault, and an all too god damn effective one." The final phrase is spat out contemptuously, everyone present able to discern the bitter taste of the words as they pass her lips. "The entire colony is being split apart. The geth are spreading out from central pockets in the most advantageous locations. How the Hell they got out from behind that Veil is anyone's guess, but they've murdered our comrades, our sick, and our innocent. There are going to be officers trying to decipher the motives of this attack, but as far as we're concerned, I think it's currently irrelevant. If we're wasting time running blindly looking for answers, that only gives them more time to butcher us. We aren't many here now, but we aren't the only survivors. A resistance is already underway within our primary outpost, and is making surprisingly quick work of the enemy hostilities. More will be joining us shortly, and until then, we work as a strike team. We aren't prepared with ammunitions or numbers enough to take on a retaliatory assault. I want this quiet." As if to demonstrate her final statement, she ceases to speak. The words are replaced by action as she silently pulls out a small pistol. She spins, and begins to slink forward, hidden within the tall, sweeping grass. Her mouth moves with the smallest of motions, as if in silent prayer.

After a moment's hesitation, fearful of disturbing her brief reverie, Graham Corey steps up beside her. "We should probably head out now, unless we're going back to clear out the base." His voice is contrite, apologizing preemptively for his advice.

Her words are softer, and I focus, try to separate them from the wind breaking like waves across the landscape. "We can't." Her tone mirrors that of Corey beside her, and genuine grief darkens her eyes as she turns to cast a final glance at the military camp. We begin to creep forwards; at long last, the burning smell of drifting smoke begins to fade, ever more dispersed by the quickening winds that begin to lash angrily about the compound.

The building itself is soon hidden behind a hill. A collective sigh nobody knew was being held is slowly let out. Only with the site of the onslaught lost to vision could we breathe a sigh of relief. Guilt grips me once more, thinking of the man, of how many more like him there could be. A single thought forces itself upon me, strikes the movement of my legs, and they stop of nearly their own accord. Logic, even willpower seems helpless to impede, much less stop it. Nearly without so much as registering the movement of my own lips, I hear my voice sharp and clear.

"Stop!" The single word is a gunshot. Nine pairs of eyes whip towards me, several creasing in suspicion. I repeat the word unnecessarily; give myself time to consider my thoughts. The stares shatter my concentration, waiting impatiently for words I can't seem to form. Deep breath. After a second's hesitation, I fix an image in my head to steel my thoughts. Now with free access to my innermost thoughts, the eyes once again attach themselves to a body, that of the man as he is dragged away once again. His life is now trapped in an endless cycle, the stumps of his legs forever staining those white tiles. Only the blood makes its way through the dust that coat them. I shudder, want to close my eyes, turn away, forget. But I keep them open; force myself to look upon the consequences of inaction. And the words come rushing back as if from a wellspring.

"Stop." I direct my attention to Williams. "You said there was a resistance underway?" She nods her head, eyes boring into my skin. For a moment, I almost clam up once more, but the memory continues to play across my vision. "Wouldn't it be more effective to take the base before the geth can set up a more stable foothold there? So you can recapture the utilities to mount a stronger defense?"

"Are you so naïve to think that option hasn't already been considered?" There is a venom in her voice, the near whisper hinting at danger the words alone could not suggest. "Do you think we would willingly throw our people to the wolves because the possibilities weren't thought up?" Slowly, the anger and accusation drain from her speech, leaving it distant and melancholy. "All the ships that can still fly are in the air by now. We're here to protect the civilians, not each other." Her voice drops once more, Williams's words are now directed solely at herself. "Soldiers die."

"But I'm trying to save more!"

"Shut the fuck up." The new voice is cold, and I feel my eyes narrow as I turn to face the speaker.

"How can you not see that this is the best option?" I shout back angrily. "I'm sure you've all heard the story by now. Is this because I had the misfortune to wind up on one of your apparently very well defended ships, at the worst time possible? Although, after all the shit I've been seeing here, I'm not sure there's really any opportune time, to be honest."

"Let me ask you a question," the other man responds. "Do you think, today, that there's the distinct possibility that every single person you've formed any connection with in the last 5 years is going to…going to…Fuck!"

"You alright?" somebody asks him.

"No! No I'm not motherfucking alright. Look the fuck around you, for Christ sake! I saw a guy run through by a rebar, back there. How long's it gonna be before it's some you know, or I know? What are you going to do if you see your best friend with his intestines hanging out?"

"Kowalski, Man, it sucks, but we did sign up for this when we enlisted…" the other man speaks up once more.

"Don't try to fucking justify this shit to me! Nobody enlisted for this. They enlisted to get paid, not to have their heads blown off, or to get their bodies cooked in a fireball. I'll keep fighting here, but it sure as hell ain't because I'm looking for a god damn paycheck. But if you can honestly look me in the eye and say that this is what I enlisted for, to see my friends and family get fucking slaughtered, then I hope you're the next to die."

Silence settles upon the small party, the man breathing heavily, eyes darting around as if waiting for an imminent attack from the group itself. The only things that greet him are a slow wind that has begun to set in with the night chill, and the sound of distant thunder storming vengefully up from the valley, the noise rattling towards us.

"Shit, storm's comin'," somebody laughs nervously, his words doing nothing to ease the tension that has settled down upon the assembly, only thickening with palpable weight that arrives with the approaching storm. The scene is frozen on the slope of the hill, the world holding its breath for the next thunder clap that never seems to arrive. As we stand stock still, as if the slightest jostle could shatter the illusory tranquility that has settled about us, an ashen trickle crawls up the sky, slowly becoming a stream, a river.

"Christ in Heaven." No other words are needed. Ten pairs of eyes are all glued upwards in terrified transfixion as a column of flame climbs behind the blackened debris that heralded its coming. "I wish we could go back to your storm theory now."

"We need to get down there." Ashley Williams's voice is solid, stoic. A force to be reckoned with amidst the silent, horrified confusion. "Now." The final word is spoken calmly, but there is a certainty behind the statement that no one is left in doubt that it is much more than a simple request.

The grass underfoot depresses beneath my step, pools of mud reaching upwards, tugging at my boots, the sound squelching like broken tissue and tendons. The soft wind continues, a god send after the oppressive stagnation.

A soft rustle comes from the grass nearby, but a quick turn of my head reveals nothing but the gentle undulations of the grass. Slight misgivings press upon the back of my mind, but I push them out of sight. We continue our mad rush down the slope, slowing only slightly as the ground begins to rise once more, the newest hill extendins upwards what appears to be only a few dozen feet. Just enough to obscure our vision until we crest the top. We are greeted by dozens of black gun barrels, the single eye boring into us in imitation of those that hold them. Geth line the long valley, staring coldly, unblinkingly at our small party.

For a moment, life once again seems locked in place. Sound exits the scene, before swelling to a violent crescendo amidst a cascading wash of brilliant, blinding light. I barely register the sensation as the ground rushes to meet my body, only noticing I have fallen when I try to rush forward. The sound of gunfire, at first so loud that the sound seemed to hold a weight of its own, is now distant and restrained, nearly hidden behind an incessant buzzing. I shake my head, but it does nothing to clear the underlying tone that seems to permeate my very existence. I roll onto my back, and stare transfixed at the flashing lights of the gun muzzles, signaling to each other, vibrating to the sound of white noise.

Beneath the near impenetrable buzzing, I register the sound of crumpling metal, and watch, transfixed, as one of the geth platforms collapses to the Earth, bowing gracefully its farewell. A sharp intake of breath distinguishes itself just above my prone form, as one of the men attempts to mirror the tragically beautiful descent. His own death is unpracticed, not gaining the benefit of experience of that of his brothers and comrades. His figure slumps grotesquely to the ground. Warm blood splashes across my face, and I blink rapidly as the fluid stings my eyes.

The contact shatters the surreal scene that has fallen about me, my mind finally absorbing the meaning of the situation. A burst of adrenaline overwhelms my senses, silencing the fear instantaneously upon its arrival. The world crawls by as I scan down my body, searching for an injury that I never find. My sigh of relief sends resounding echoes reverberating inside my head, the volume replacing the distant, monotonous thrumming of the outside world. I place a hand against the side of my head, and as I pull away, I see blood on the fingertips.

My thoughts are quickly ripped away from the sanguine liquid that glistens in the rapidly fading half-light as I see a second figure drop morosely to the surface. As his eyes slowly seal, the long grass sways comfortingly against his cheek. I struggle to tear my gaze away from the scene, but there is something hypnotic in the serenely horrific image. Slowly, the hint of a melancholy smile inches its way across his face, free at last from the horror.

I jerk my hand before my face, shuddering at the images imprinted on my mind. They lay atop one other, permanently etched upon my memory. The man's severed legs still stain the ground, even as I try to hide it behind my palm.

"What in fuck's name are you doing?" a voice hisses in my ear. Kowalski has dropped beside me, inching his way along the valley. The tall grass hides his prostrate figure.

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand and that same harsh whisper. "You know what? We can work that out later. For now, you come with me, help me out here. And after I'm done talking, we both shut the fuck up; keep these motherfuckers' attention off us."

"What exactly is it that you're proposing?" I ask.

"What the fuck I just say? Come on, stay low." He begins to snake through the grass, propelling his body forward slowly with his hands. As I follow, it takes a moment to register that sound has returned to the world in full, bullets exploding from the barrels of guns with painful force. Metal grates resoundingly against metal, and there is an agonizing cry as it tears through flesh. I stare resolutely at the slinking form just before me, praying that if I am only intent enough, the surrounding horror may vanish.

"Hey, what's going on here?" Graham Corey asks suddenly, his voice materializing beside my prone body. I move my hand from my face to look; the man crouches in the grass beside where I lay on my stomach, my head tucked beneath one arm. Blood trickles from a gash near his temple, intermingling with the beads of sweat that have begun to form.

"Careful," I whisper in response, gladly accepting any opportunity to avert my attention from the dropping bodies, from my own imminent death that hangs above my head like the sword of Damocles. "This bastard might eat your soul if you don't shut absolutely the hell up. Of course, he wouldn't phrase it so eloquently."

"Of course not," Corey responds dryly.

"Hey, fuckhead, quit dicking around and follow me," drifts Kowalski's voice.

With a quick wink in my direction, Corey shifts his position to respond. "Son, I am your superior officer, and you will address me as such!"

"My apologies, Lieutenant," Kowalski drawls, turning fully to look back over his shoulder, "but I've been here one hell of a lot longer than you. Eight Goddamn years I've been in the rotation, six of them on this damn piece of shit rock. If I haven't earned the right to move up in the food chain, at least give me the leisure of bitching about it."

"I'm fairly certain they've glossed over your surely _glamorous _file primarily out of concern that you're an incompetent asshole," Corey shoots back sarcastically, flashing the slightest hint of a smile at his own words. "Damn, I needed this conversation," he continues, looking over his shoulder at the line of soldiers still exchanging lead with the machines. "I'm a god damn officer, and I can't even watch people die."

"Nice to know one of us here is so fucking Zen," Kowalski shouts back, not hearing Corey's final statement. The man has disappeared further ahead than ever as he continues to slink on his stomach amidst the grass.

"Have to keep a clear head, son. If you lose it now, were in Christ's name would we be? Call me insensitive, but I'd prefer to stay out of a damn mass grave for the time being, because make no mistake; that's where this is heading."

"Son, now? Position's going to your head again, _Lieutenant_. Last time I checked, I'm a bit ahead of you on the nova front. Eight years, remember?"

A bullet whizzes past my ear, splashing my face with the slightest traces of warm blood. Corey winces, and puts a hand to his head, slowly. They come away damp. "God damn bastards clipped me again," he mutters to himself, looking up at me before continuing. "I swear to God, by the time this over, those metal fucks will have my skull well and truly aerated."

"Maybe it'll relieve some of the hot air that's collected up there," comes Kowalski's distant voice once more.

"I think it's time we started following your advice," Corey responds with a sudden firm finality. "Quiet from here on, before they can make good on my prediction."

Corey and I begin to pick our way forward, staying carefully hidden in Kowalski's wake, pressing our bodies flat against the grass already cracked forward from his weight. It sways tall on either side, the strangs whispering amongst themselves, as if relating stories to be hidden from any nearby ears. I pray silently that they deem to continue obscuring our slinking bodies.

Slowly the sounds of gunfire grow distant, the echoes in the hills ringing as loudly in our heads as the sounds fresh from their barrels. The cries surround me, pressing in from all sides. My elbow scrapes through the dirt, turning up small foreign creatures from the damp earth. They scuttle madly in drunken circles, clicking the small pincers together that hang from the tops of their heads in fear or annoyance at their disruption.

A sharp pain rolls down my arm as if in a wave of fire that disappears as quickly as it comes. I slam my fist instinctively against the burning skin, feeling something give beneath my fingertips, as the pain suddenly spreads into my hand. Recoiling in shock, I yank it into view, and glance in mute horror at the claw that pierces the skin, blood seeping from around the ragged entrance. "Shit!" I mutter, voice rising several octaves in pitch.

I feel Corey bump into the bottom of my boots, his eyes widening as he sees me lying still. "God damn it," he hisses, pulling himself forward as quickly as his arms will allow. "Are you alright? What happened?" In response I hold up my hand. There is a moment of stunned silence before his face contorts into a wicked snicker. "Hey, Kowalski, get your ass over here for a second," he forces out, the sound short and sharp.

"Thanks, I could use a bit of free time. Not like I have anything better to do," he responds, turning his body around painstakingly in the grass.

"What the hell are those things?" I whisper, my voice remaining unnaturally high in pitch despite my efforts to suppress the fear.

"Looks like you just had a run in with some local wildlife, son," Corey laughs.

"Are they poisonous?" I ask.

"Very," Kowalski grunts, sidling beside me on his stomach, a look of hopeless sympathy stretching across his face. "If we had any doctors, I could run you there now, but with this situation, I'd give you about ten minutes to live. I'm so sorry. I wish things could have worked out differently." My eyes widen in sudden fear, and I feel my body begin to tense up, shivers running involuntarily down my arms, the poison beginning to take effect.

As I glance up, I see Corey looking at Kowalski, shaking his head while trying to stifle a laugh. "You are an asshole," he forces through the chuckle caught in his throat.

"Wait…it wasn't deadly? I'm going to be okay?" I choke out, trying to force down the panic tightening my chest.

"As a matter of fact, you will. But let this be a lesson to you," Corey adds, "never, and I emphasize this, take a word that this prick ever says seriously."

"Corey, why do you always have to spoil my fucking good time?" Kowalski asks with feigned anger.

"It's because I'm an Officer. We have to keep all you jarhead pricks on the level. Although to be honest, by this point you're more or less a lost cause. I may just have to put a bullet to you myself."

"Yeah, good luck, Sergeant. You might want to hurry up with that shit, because as it stands now, I think the geth may beat you to it."

"Look," Corey says, lowering his voice. "I don't care if I have to resort to necromancy. If you leave this world, I'll be the one conducting your grand exit. And for the record, it's Lieutenant. Slip up again, watch me court martial your ass so hard these geth'll find sympathy for you."

"I hear ya, Sarge."

As he opens his mouth to respond, Corey's words remain unspoken, replaced instead by a sharp intake of breath, fresh blood trickling down his right cheek.

"Fuck!" he shouts to himself. "Got me again."

"At least it's on the other side of your face from the last graze," Kowalski adds. "I've heard the ladies love some good symmetry." His voice no longer has the mocking humor of only moments before, his features slowly turning white.

"That's it," Corey says firmly, his voice gaining a harder edge. "From this point on, shut the Hell up, and for real this time." He turns to me, adding, "Now, you, I know we know jack shit on who you are, beyond what you've told us, and that is fairly sparse information. But you haven't shot us in the back as of this moment, so I'm going to trust you. If I so much as think you're about to turn on us, though, I won't wait for a court trial. I'll execute you here and now. And by the way, if it so pleases you, now might be a good time to start using more of those biotics we saw back near the hangar. We could use a few more of those in the Alliance, especially now. Don't waste your target practice."

"Sure thing, Sergeant," I respond, grinning weakly.

"Huh, you know, maybe this guy ain't so fucking bad after all," Kowalski interjects.

Without a further word, the three of us slink forwards once more. In the sudden silence, the world once again grows oppressive, and I can feel my breaths coming short and shallow. Thoughts begin to whip through my head in an indiscernible frenzy, disappearing before I can process their meanings. As the images continue to force themselves onto me from behind my eyes, one slowly grows apparent. Bloodied knives hang over a table, the fluorescent lighting overhead casting the image into cold, mechanical relief. A man stands in the corner, dusting his hands on a lab coat. His face is gaunt and sallow, all traces of humanity washed away with the shadows by the imposingly artificial illumination. He nods at someone beyond my field of vision and swivels upon his heel, disappearing from view.

I claw at my hand, wishing desperately to vacate this hollow, haunting world and return to the simplicity of flying bullets, and I feel myself jerk back to reality, savoring the sensation of wind sweeping through my hair. As the sun strains to push its rays across the landscape, through the clouds that blanket the atmosphere, I am struck by the beauty of the world itself. As the grass about the three of us shortens, I can see valleys extending far out of sight in gentle waves. So far in the distance that it cannot be said if it was real or mirage, crystal water reflects the weak rays, its surface catching the light. The beams play across its surface as if caught up in an ethereal dance.

My attention is thrust violently back into reality. I feel the ground give way beneath my fingertips. It begins slowly, the dirt shifting at my hand's touch, a strand of grass pulling its root free from the soil, before it collapses completely. My stomach drops as I watch my body fall into the newly opened chasm, and it feels as if the world has dropped away. My leg lands first, and I inhale as a wave of pain tears across the neurons within.

I raise my head slowly, blinking flecks of dirt from my eyes, forcing the new area into focus. Kowalski sits up on the opposite side of the collapsed structure, rubbing the back of his neck. "Son of a bitch," he mutters to no one in particular.

I take in the surroundings; the dirt walls appear to be impacted, shaping to a rounded contour beneath. Despite the natural façade, it seems human.

"Welcome to the tunnels, my friends," Corey grunts, extricating himself from a pile of earth that had fallen on his chest in the fall.

"Wait, where?" I ask, picking myself from the dirt floor, careful to keep pressure off my left leg.

"The tunnels," he says again, and noticing the look of confusion still plastered across my features, continues. "These used to be irrigation ditches when I showed up here for my first tour. Not long after that, there was a huge storm, and some sections caved in. Seeing as the rest was unusable, the colony just decided to fill it in and start from scratch. They wanted to move deeper into the valley anyway, were pushing for it since I first showed up, and that gave them the opportunity."

"And they couldn't have these scars tearing up the land, so they hid them beneath some grass. Which they evidently should have planted thicker, and with more support. God damn morons," Kowalski adds, once more massaging his neck.

Our eyes are pulled up to the sliver of sky that looks down on us through the new skylight above as the sound of a roaring engine roars in reverberating echoes between the rounded walls that stretch above our heads. A small ship skims nearby overhead, my hair whipping to the side from its wake as it passes. Before it disappears from view as quickly as it arrived, I am just able to make out the word Normandy set upon the side of the ship in pronounced white lettering.

"Poor bastards," Corey sighs, shaking his head. "From the direction, I'd guess we got a couple reinforcements coming in. Everyone's getting torn to pieces." For a moment his face is stiffly firm, trying to maintain the composure under pressure he had displayed since the ambush. But in a moment, it crumbles away, just as the dirt that had once lain above this small hollow canyon had moments earlier.

"God damn it!" he shouts, thrashing his fist against the dirt wall repeatedly. Blood forms on his knuckles, staining the dirt as it is shaken loose to the ground. In the midst of the sudden frenzy, Kowalski hurries behind Corey and grabs his arm, ceasing the relentless hammering before yet another inevitable impact.

Corey spins on his heel with a wild look in his eyes, and for the space of a second, I think him about to lash out at Kowalski. However, the animalistic rage quickly drains from his face, leaving him shaking his head in shame. "God damn it," he repeats, exhaustion permeating his words. "I'm sorry," he adds on, casting his eyes everywhere in the small space, save for the man standing at his shoulder. "If anyone of us has a right to be upset right now, it's you."

"I wish I could," Kowalski answers, staring determinedly into the dusty floor. "But my tank's dry. I already lost it once, back before the ambush. And I don't know, I just think reality somehow hit home, you know? I have to keep my shit together, if not for me, than for her. And as much as the jokes helped before we fell into this pit, I think something jarred me here, got my head in the right place. I'm fighting back, and I'm getting her through this alive." With the faintest hint of a sad smile, he adds, "I've been watching after her since she was six. Do you think I'm gonna stop now?"

"If you did, I'd ask who cut off Aaron Kowalski's face and stitched it onto this motherfucker."

"To be fair, it already looks like someone might have," I interject. The two turn to look at me, Corey stifling a chuckle, Kowalski merely shaking his head in disappointment.

"If you're going to take a crack at my good lucks, try writing the punch-line yourself. Works much better on an audience."

"Right," Corey speaks up, once more with a commanding authority, wavering only slightly as he continues. "The rest of the group we were with didn't look prepared to survive a prolonged arms conflict, and the only way to see it through the other end, I would assume, would be to run. There's no going back, everyone's already gone. From this point, I believe we should," he begins before trailing off, biting his lip in sudden uncertainty. He pauses a second to collect himself, exhales towards the thin line of sky above, now obscured by a mournful gray as night draws closer and closer to its onset. The fading day seems to press a sense of urgency upon him, and when he turns his gaze back to us, the words have reformed upon his lips. "We're going back."

I wait a moment to see if anything would follow, but the words hang in place between us. "I thought you said that was off the table?" I question apologetically, instinctively backing up as I speak the words.

"Not to the ambush site," Corey answers. "Before, when Ash told us there was a resistance movement at the base…I say we head up there. We'll do a lot better off if we aren't isolated. Plus, the sooner we get these machines off this planet, the sooner we can find Virginia."

The last words are directed at Kowalski, and I see his shoulder stiffen at the name. "Don't worry," Corey reassures him. "They're focusing on the military. Hard to take a colony when you're being bombarded with more bullets than in a Turian shooting gallery. Virginia will be perfectly fine, wait and see."

"Yeah," Kowalski responds half-heartedly. "I'm sure you're right." He breathes deeply, steeling himself, and gives himself a reassuring nod. "Okay. Let's fuck shit up."

"There's the Aaron I like to hear," Corey smiles, slapping him across the shoulder. "Let's earn our salary."

"There's a salary involved?" I ask innocently.

"Not for you, my friend. You just earn our undying gratitude," Corey shoots back over his shoulder as he begins his progress down the tunnel, searching for a possible exit.

"Let the Sergeant over here talk you up all he wants," Kowalski says from the corner of his mouth. Winking, he adds, "A ten dollar crack whore is still a ten dollar crack whore, no matter how much you compliment her flexibility." He draws the last word out, savoring every syllable.

"You're just jealous that I can pick up ten dollars with every client," I say back.

"When did I show you my account? I make at least 15 a session, average, and that's a conservative estimate. I got a pretty face."

"Yep, you're beautiful," Corey shouts back, already a fair distance ahead. "But let's worry about you two's happy sausage party time, at least until we clear out the geth. Sound like a plan?"

"Just as long as you give your time to Ol' Ten Dollar here. No offense, Lieutenant, but you ain't my type," Kowalski answers.

"Kowalski, I'm sick of your disrespectful attitude. I am your commanding officer, and if I ask, you will take it like a champ."

Before he can receive a response, Corey pulls up short, his face growing serious, inspecting a portion of the rounded wall that encircles us. "Here," he says, spinning to face Kowalski and me.

I glance over the wall, but can't make out any difference from the homogeneity of the many feet of our dirt cell that we have already passed by, save for a few uneven crests reaching their way up the wall. However, my unvoiced question is quickly answered as Corey steps beside the ridges, and begins brushing dirt away. Small clumps fall in haphazard spirals to the ground. Behind them, small pieces of rusted metal begin to make themselves apparent, the white paint that had evidently once covered it yellowed and chipping away. As more of their earthy veil is swept aside, the projections begin to take shape, conforming to a slightly rounded mold, each end wrapping in upon itself.

"I knew the access ladder was here somewhere," Corey mutters to no one in particular. "Right," he adds, turning to address us. "If memory serves, the ladder for this main pipeline was fairly close to where we stationed the base, so it shouldn't be much of a trek. And before we join the mounting resistance, in case something happens, I would just like you to know that it's been an honor. Aaron, you've been a close friend since I first arrived here. I apologize, not very sincerely, but still, that I usurped your perceived position that you would never have received from anyone with even a shred of sanity. And don't worry about a thing. We'll find Virginia, and she'll be perfectly fine. And Tom," he turns, staring at me. "I may not know a damn thing about you, but from what I've seen, I don't believe you had anything to do with the attacks against us. Although I can safely say you have the worst fucking timing I have seen in anyone. But as things stand, if the Alliance continues to question you, I'd put in a good word. I'll see both of you on the other side."

"Lieutenant," Kowalski answers, for the first time giving a proper salute. "Thank you."

I nod my own appreciation, and mimic the salute. Corey returns the gesture, and as he does, I see his eyes narrow. "Let's go introduce some metal to metal, see what happens," he concludes, before rapping his hand around a rung and beginning a quick ascent. I follow his retreating form, feeling the metal cold beneath my fingers, so long forgotten by the civilized world. As I reach the top, I see a pillar of smoke stretching into the sky, choking the landscape with ash as the wind sweeps it across the rolling sea of grass. Similar spots of darkness dot the valleys that sweep outwards from the hill on which we stand. Tall buildings are enshrouded, beacons to signal for help that won't come, that will never see the fires.

Kowalski drags himself onto the grass, pulling himself to his feet. I check the pistol that hangs at my side, pull it out. My inexperience will render it utterly useless in a battle, but I find comfort in its presence, a benevolent guardian. I feel my feet sweep across the landscape, but the sensation is distant, as if they drag through water. What have I gotten myself into? The thought presses down, inescapable. I glance down, try to envision my body laced with bullet holes, spilling my life into the field around me, separate even from the funeral pyre that rages before us. No more ships move from the hangar, the arching ceiling caught in the depths of the inferno.

"Son of a bitch," Corey says, staring in wide-eyed horror at the beautifully horrific panorama laid out before us. The scene seems that of a painting, even the air lying in trepid anticipation. The strange ship continues its intent scrutiny of the scene unfolding beneath it. The air is spotted with ships dwarfed beside the great sentinel. As I watch, one is set alight, it's tail trailing a wake of orange and yellow through the air, a star falling as it mingles with the familiar world. Once familiar, before it was scarred and razed.

My eyes begin to burn as we approach the base, roiling smoke caressing my face with malicious tendrils. Before me, I see Corey pull a small face mask from his belt, align it across his mouth. He turns and motions us to hurry, a flailing arm indicating a door that remains intact. As I run forward, holding my hands across my mouth in a desperate bid to keep out the choking air that circles my head, I feel my foot catch on something, and I pitch forward. I look over my shoulder, stare in mute shock at my boot stuck across the chest of a body, torso riddled with small punctures that still leak the corpse's contents upon the ground beneath it. But my eyes are instead drawn to the head, the eyes clamped tightly shut. A mask, identical to the one Corey wears, and, as a quick glance further down identifies, Kowalski as well, encloses his pained features.

With a whisper of apology, I pull it from his face, luxuriating in the small comfort of a hiss of air as it comes free. Without a second's further hesitation, I clamp it in place, feel the air grow tighter against my face as it seals off the outside world. I pick myself from the dirt and, at long last, enter the building once more.

The uneasy calm of outside dissipates instantly. Sounds reach us before a vision, reverberating gunshots pummeling us from all directions. Instinctively, I crouch low and sprint forward, staring intently at my white knuckles that clench the weapon between my fingers. I only notice my heaving chest as I try to gasp in a breath, the taste of clean air a small comfort amidst the unseen horror. My back presses against a fallen pedestal, and as I turn to take in what little surrounding remain visible, I see two streaks of blood stretch across the tiles, just barely visible beneath a settling black powder. The memory returns in full force, and I once more see the outline of his figure being pulled away, thrashing stumps giving way to hopeless acceptance. His eyes, long since disappeared from the physical world about me, nevertheless renew their intent gaze. They cast spotlights upon my figure, illuminating me alone from the dead world around. I am overcome with the desire to abandon this place, escape the pressing unspoken accusations. My legs carry me away, seemingly of their own accord, my body simply following the lead they provide.

As I hurtle deeper within, the sounds grow louder, more concentrated, and, finally, other figures separate themselves from the surrounding fog. These seem ignorant to my sudden appearance, and I revel in their existence, something real before me to cling onto. As I allow myself to take control once more of my own mind, I register their motions, crouched behind fallen chunks of debris, holding weapons above and firing wildly. Just ahead of them, broken beams of light occasionally pierce through the fog, before disappearing beneath an onslaught of ammunition. I have found the final push. I jump into the fray unnoticed, and, as I duck my head beneath a crumpled, twisted chunk of metal, I see Corey and Kowalski enter onto the scene just behind me.

Kowalski rips a rifle from where it rests on his back, pouring rounds into the distance almost as soon as the muzzle elongates in his grip. I watch the movement, follow the example. I raise my arm, trying to hold the gun clamped within steady, but tremors roll across it, sending the muzzle into a frenzied dance. I pull the trigger once, sending a bullet flying wildly before it ricochets off a nearby pillar and disappears into obscurity.

"Fuck," I whisper to myself, ducking my head back down, steeling myself. When I next peer up, I whip the gun into haze, the weapon sliding along the floor and out of sight. Deep breath. I tense every muscle in my body, feeling needles move up and down my skin. The tingling permeates my being, and a cursory glance downwards reveals a welcome sight. Ripples of blue light roll across my body, growing brighter as they extend. I heave forward, throwing all my weight behind the growing energy as I force it through my fingers. An orb of pulsating light is thrown outward, thundering into the smoke just as one of the geth figures appears. It's body is lifted as it is tossed backward helplessly, it's stiff legs comical as they scramble to find purchase on a ground that no longer maintains contact. It disappears from view, but a sound of grinding metal announces its collision with the floor, friction sending sparks flying into view, hungrily alighting upon any form within reach. I'm unable to suppress the hint of a smile that crawls across my features, savoring the sudden power. I raise my hand, and watch once more as the energy hurtles through the air, unstoppable.

Everything loses its definition as I continue, ignoring the outer world in favor of my own established microcosm, the raw power contained therein. I feel myself vaulting across the barrier before me, but I barely register my own muscles commit to the action. All that matters is this new sensation, the waves of energy hanging just beneath my skin, the disappearing color as one geth, indiscernible from the next, losing the light on their approximation of a head. Their frames crumple like paper, falling limply to the floor.

As I push forward, surrounded on all sides by the piercing sound of gunshots and crunches as bullets meet their mark, the numbers grow less and less, and the thoughtless power begins to recede. I see one last machine drop as a round breaks through its weak shields, and another tearing through its chest. For a fleeting moment, it hangs motionless, as if waiting for a decision, before slowly succumbing to the forces that tug at its form, tugging it earthward. Everyone is still as it falls, watching the descent, before erupting into a cheer as the last light is extinguished as easily as if it had been a candle. Behind it, another door is apparent, the light pouring through the shadowed outline. As it pierces the dim haze, sends it hurtling away, I raise my hand in an attempt to deflect it, the sudden dichotomy of colour burning my eyes.

I feel a hand pat me on the back, and turn to see Graham Corey, looking down at me intently. "Good job there, kid."

"Yeah," Kowalski agrees, appearing behind him. "Nice to see you doing something besides the old classic duck and cover. I could've sworn that's all you were capable of."

"You're just jealous that after my display, my affordable ten dollar moniker is going to be earning me quite a few more customers than your outrageous price tag."

* * *

Outside, the aerial battle still rages fiercely, Alliance fighters engaging the geth ships in an interweaving dance, but the sentinel has disappeared from the landscape. Ground resistance in the area has disappeared, ceasing nearly as suddenly as it arrived. Still figures dress the landscape as men sweep the area, looking for fallen comrades, the air punctuated by piercing cries as one is discovered. The sound sends shivers down my spine, and the outer air seems to grow colder.

I glance up to see Kowalski, eyes whipping about furiously, trying to catch onto something that remains infuriatingly absent. He runs his hand through his close cropped hair, trying to pick at strands, but his fingers finding no purchase. In the space of a moment, his eyes grow wide, and he sprints forward. I spin my head to follow his progress, and watch as he sweeps a girl into his arms; she looks little more than fifteen, her small arm curling around his neck, as he pulls her close, whispers soft words into her ear. His fingers pull through her matted, straggly hair, separating the strands where they have tangled together. As he turns, a single tear runs down his cheek, and he quickly wipes it away, glancing around in embarrassment. I avert my gaze, turning as I hear him whisper, "Everything's okay. I'm here. Virginia, I'm here."

As I begin to walk forward once more, I feel something tug at my leg. A young man lies stretched on the grass, forgotten amidst the innumerable dead and dying. Deep gashes are raked across his chest, staining his clothes a shade of glowing crimson.

"Stay with me," he chokes out, eyes pleading.

"Okay," I whisper, crouching down beside the man, placing a hand beneath his head. I feel him lie back against it, and close his eyes, only to pry them open laboriously. His lips move, and at first no sound is discernible, but he perseveres, and finally manages to push the words out.

"Tell me everything will be fine. Tell me I'm going to see Heaven."

The words catch me off guard, and I glance up at sky. How could he wish to see a God who allowed this to happen to him, to mock his future as his dreams, hopes, desires are all snatched away in a single moment? I wish I could share his faith, carry his hope that even at this stage, somehow everything would still right itself. That justice exists in the world.

"Yes," I say softly. "You're going to wake up in Heaven."

He smiles faintly, and once again rests his head back, and sighs. I wait for another intake of breath, but nothing comes, and his figure remains still. I place his head into the sweeping grass that sways across his serene face, the strands whispering their soft good-byes.


End file.
